


An Autumn Tale

by Schattenriss



Series: The Contours of Shadows [9]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Bittersweet, Gothic, Horror, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27366499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenriss/pseuds/Schattenriss
Summary: With Corypheus defeated and the Inquisition between jobs, Dorian and Kai finally have time to take a holiday. Brandel's Reach seems to be an ideal romantic escape, far from anything connected to the last few years. But the Reach has a past of its own, and not everything long buried is content to stay there. Something has been awakened, and it wants Dorian...
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Kai Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan
Series: The Contours of Shadows [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/734511
Comments: 46
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Nightscrawl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightscrawl/pseuds/Nightscrawl/works) requested a horror story for Halloween--thanks for both the request and the beta!  
> Well, it's a little after Halloween, and turned into something a little more than a horror story...but that's not unexpected when Dorian and Kai are involved.

[](https://imgur.com/b2u5fxn)

Dorian climbed into our coach and flung himself onto the seat opposite me with a groan. “Remind me again why I just subjected myself to a sea voyage of excruciating duration.”

“Because there is no place in Orlais or Ferelden that either of us wanted to go for a holiday.” The driver urged the horses into a walk. I settled into the cushioned bench seat, glad that no one else was sharing the coach with us. 

“That was supposed to be a rhetorical request.”

“I know. But I’m sick enough of Orlais and Ferelden that I wanted to answer. If I never hear another Orlesian accent it’ll be too soon.”

Dorian put his legs up on the seat, leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “Enjoy it while you can, amatus. They do expect us back at Skyhold eventually.”

“Don’t remind me.” 

“Perhaps we’ll be so enamoured of the picturesque charm of Brandel’s Reach that we’ll purchase a nautically-themed cottage and never return. We’ll change our names and spend our time in arcane research financed by casting cantrips on attractive seashells we find on the beach.”

I smiled. “You’ve got this all figured out already?”

He opened his eyes a crack. “I was considering ways to avoid another boat trip. I cannot believe that captain refused to admit there were _squalls._ I know a squall when I see one.” 

Dorian identified anything stronger than a light breeze as a squall; for him it was a catch-all term that meant “things that make me feel more wretchedly seasick.” Healing spells didn’t work because to them there was nothing to heal, so he spent any boat voyage veering between sick and wondering when he was going to get sick again. I felt sorry for him, so I didn’t correct him. Instead I said, “Honestly, there’s barely any point returning to Skyhold. All I do anymore is sign papers and play diplomat.”

“Which is why we’re taking this holiday. Now relax and think of days at the beach and island grog.” He closed his eyes again and appeared to doze off. 

I looked out the window at what a sign identified as the Coast Road. Despite having grown up just across the channel from the large island, I’d never visited. People yearning for beaches normally went north to Antiva if they had the money; those on the Reach were of the smooth pebbled variety, and while they had their share of beautiful days, there were many more that were like this one—temperate but overcast. “Like Ostwick but you need a boat to get away from it,” was a common assessment on the mainland.

To the left, the beach we’d been paralleling became an increasingly steep set of rocky cliffs. On the right were low green bushes and high green grasses. There appeared to be trees far in the distance, but this close to the edge was all moorland. The overcast skies gave everything an air of loneliness and mystery. The only sounds aside from the coach were the ubiquitous sea birds. Eventually the rocking of the coach and the sameness of the landscape lulled me into sleep too. I woke with a start when the driver rapped on the top of the coach. 

We were travelling through a small village of sturdy white houses with grey roofs and decoratively carved wood trim. Those soon gave way to a couple of shops, a single pub and an inn. We passed through the village and turned up a road that took us through scattered deciduous trees to a large clearing. A modest two-story house painted light grey with white wood trim stood in the center. Its roof was the color of dark slate. The clearing also contained a barn just big enough to stable a few horses, and an outhouse, both painted to match the main house. 

We climbed out of the coach and stretched. The driver climbed up to unstrap our luggage. A breeze gusted through the clearing and Dorian shivered theatrically. 

“A pity we didn’t have enough time to travel somewhere warm. This place does have a fireplace, I hope,” he said. 

The driver looked down at him. “I never heard of a place on the Reach that doesn’t. Yon chimney could be a sign you’re in luck.”

Dorian tried to explain it was more in the nature of a comment than a question, changed the subject to the fact that we could move the luggage off the top of the coach with magic now that it was unlashed. While he and the driver debated whether that was the proper way to unload luggage, I studied what was to be our home for the next fortnight. The place looked sturdy enough, though I wasn’t terribly thrilled with the outhouse. It was easy to forget that much of southern Thedas hadn’t quite caught on to indoor plumbing yet. I caught a flash of movement out the corner of my eye, but by the time I focused, whatever-it-was was long gone. I assumed it was a rabbit or some other woodland creature disturbed by our arrival. Not a nug, because they rarely went long without vocalizing.

I asked, “What kind of rodents are around here?”

The driver stared at me and shrugged. “The usual, I suppose. Rabbits, fennecs, skunks, bandit foxes.”

“No nugs?”

He shook his head. “We don’t allow them on the island. They’re not native and we don’t want them taking over here. Only nug you’ll find is served on a plate at the pub.”

“What about larger predators?”

“You afraid of bears or big cats, mayhap? We got nothing like that. Even the snakes aren’t poisonous.” His expression all but shouted _ugh, city people._

“Ah, well that’s good to know.” I’d been more curious than worried, but it wasn’t worth going into.

While the driver was talking to me, Dorian had moved our luggage off the top of the coach with a simple kinetic spell. The driver gave him a hard look that was met with a guileless smile. Dorian pressed a few extra coins into the man’s hand and thanked him for his excellent service. The amount of the tip went a long way toward alleviating his annoyance, and he bade us a cordial enough farewell.

Dorian waved goodbye as we watched him leave, then turned to me with a cheeky smile.

“I think you made him nervous,” I said.

“The South has supposedly begun to hesitantly lurch away from Chantry-fuelled prejudices about us. I think it does people good to see magic used in a practical, non-threatening manner.”

“I agree. I’m just not sure the rest of southern Thedas does.” I thought I saw another flash of movement through the trees near the barn, but couldn’t be sure. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning to Dorian, instead suggested we see what the interior of the house was like.

“I believe I’ve grown twelve percent more rustic merely by entering this place,” Dorian declared, lowering our luggage to rest in the middle of the living room. “It is tragic that there wasn’t one nearby city worth exploring.”

“Markham’s nice, but it’d take too long to get there,” I said. “If you absolutely had to go to a city, I suppose we could’ve gone to Kirkwall.”

Dorian made a face. “With all due respect to Varric, it’s still a bit of a shithole.” He gave me a look bright with inspiration. “We could go to Ostwick! I could meet your parents.”

I leaned against an elderly sideboard stained almost black by years of polish. “I don’t think any of us are ready for that. I also don’t want to spend our entire holiday feeling tense.”

“You think the fine, earthy citizens of the town will welcome two city mages with open arms and a fruit basket?”

“I think money goes a long way toward getting into the earthy citizens’ good graces. I wouldn’t hold my breath for the fruit basket.”

“You don’t think we can trade on your title?”

I snorted. “We don’t know how well-known the Inquisition is here, and they have no reason to believe I’m the Inquisitor if they _do_ find it impressive. I’m certainly not going to waste my time trying to prove it. Next thing you know someone would bring up the whole Herald thing and then I’d be tense and cross again. Better to simply spend like a couple of rich city folk on holiday.”

“I bow to your wisdom.” Dorian matched action to words. “We shall be charming and profligate, and let them know that we won’t be trying to intrude on their barn dances or fishing competitions.”

“Or cast spells on them. Your average earthy citizen is convinced we all want to cast spells on them.”

“I must say most of them could do with a hygiene spell, but I shall refrain from providing them any lessons in self-improvement. _You,_ on the other hand, need to concentrate on keeping that ‘I am mind-numbingly unimpressed’ look off your face.”

“I can do pleasant. I fooled everyone in Orlais multiple times, what’s a few villagers?”

“Ah, but everyone in Orlais assumed you were just as full of _kaffas_ as they were, not to mention I’m sure many of them were envious of your unimpressed face. These people will take you at— _ahem—_ face value, so just be pleasant no matter how primitive everything is. If I can do it for years, you can do it for a few weeks.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll be _nice._ I promise.”

Having worked out our diplomatic strategy, we set to exploring the house. There wasn’t a lot to it—living room with a fireplace and a kitchen with an icebox, sink and wood stove on the first floor. I was pleased to find a washroom with a small but functional shower. At least someone was trying to modernize despite the outhouse. Second floor held two bedrooms and a trap door to the attic in the central hallway. That was locked, which immediately made me curious. Dorian reminded me there might be a key to it somewhere, so perhaps we should postpone breaking and entering. Another trap door off the kitchen led down to a root cellar neither one of us really wanted to explore—it smelled musty, and shining a light into it revealed nothing but empty wooden shelves and a few old crates in the back. It also looked like the kind of place that would be popular with spiders. 

We found the wood for the stove and fireplace stacked in a sheltered area on the side of the house, much to Dorian’s relief (he’d been envisioning having to chop wood, if not entire trees). The barn held two stalls, storage for tack, a drift of leftover hay and a couple of chains with heavy hooks hanging from the rafters. 

“For hanging meat after slaughter?” was Dorian’s guess.

I blinked at him. “You know about hanging meat?”

“Ignoring the dubious double entendre, _you_ do? What were they teaching you in that circle?”

“I read a lot. What’s your excuse?”

“Tevinter has books too, you know. We can only hope these weren’t for anything more exotic than the occasional pig or deer.”

I affected surprise. “I’m supposed to be the one who says ghoulish things.”

“I said nothing ghoulish. You merely interpreted it that way.” He gave me a look of wounded innocence. “And I fail to see why your piercing eyes and penchant for black give you sole license to utter ghoulish things.”

I gave him a half smile. “Because you’re already a necromancer. To many people’s minds you _are_ a ghoulish thing. You really want to confirm it for them?”

“If it will get me a good table at my restaurant of choice, I’ll confirm anything they want. Dismaying how few restaurants want a dancing skeleton to promote their food.”

“I’d try that restaurant.”

He smirked. “I know. But as we’ve long since established, you are not normal.”

“Fortunately for you.”

“Well of course. I’m far too grand to settle for normal in a lover.”

“Just don’t expect me to indulge your thirst for the exotic in this barn. I don’t do rural.”

He laughed. “Agreed. Speaking of rural, we’d best find out what sort of horrors the outhouse holds.”

It turned out to be fairly civilized as outhouses go—clean and nearly odorless. Someone had even provided a seat with a lid. As long as no spiders had decided to take up residence underneath, it would be tolerable. We returned to the house, debated what to do next.

“We could use food,” I suggested.

Dorian’s expression of disapproval at the puff of dust that had arisen when he dropped onto the couch turned to incredulity. “Are you suggesting we _cook_?”

“You saw the pub in town. I mean, I might be able to fry something or…something, but we’d have to go to town either way.”

“No offense, amatus, but I think I’d prefer to take my chances with the pub. We could always look for a few ready-made items that are idiot-proof to bring home for snacks after.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said drily. Not that I blamed him—through no fault of my own, I’d never learned to cook, and I didn’t think those times we’d heated something over a campfire when we were in the middle of nowhere closing rifts counted for much. Cooking was one of the skills I had on a mental to-learn list. Dorian was no better, but didn’t see any reason why he _should_ learn. 

“We could do something a bit more carnal…” He waggled his eyebrows like a letch in a comic play.

I chuckled. “I certainly hope so. But I’d rather wait till we’re in for the night and I want to clean up. I feel all grotty.”

“Now that you mention it, road grit _is_ verging on rural. It will give us something to look forward to. Given the clear lack of a theatre scene or even a library, we _will_ have to make our own entertainment.”

“What do you suppose people do here at night?” I wondered.

“Aside from the usual? Make sacrifices to the local fish god, I suppose. Shall we keep an eye out for suspiciously ichthic sculpture on the way?”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

It was warm enough that coats were unnecessary despite it being early fall. We locked and warded the house so if anyone thought liberating valuables from the stupid outlanders was a good idea they’d be in for a nasty surprise. The sun shone in pretty beams through the trees, whose foliage was turning autumn shades and beginning to carpet the ground. Birds flitted, sang and argued amongst them.

“I keep feeling like I’m supposed to be closing a rift,” I complained, glaring at my left hand. The anchor was quiescent, but it was there—a smug, alien line of glowing green bisecting my palm. I hated it, but since there was nothing I could do to make it go away I tried not to think about it.

“Understandable. That’s the only time we’ve done much strolling through the forest. I can’t help but feel there should be at least one fennec pacing us.”

“I keep feeling like something _is_. This job has made me paranoid.”

“Not without good reason,” Dorian said. “I confess to thinking I’ve seen something out of the corner of my eye several times since we got here. Is that why you were asking about rodents?”

“Uh huh. It’s strange. Cities don’t bother me nearly as much even though chances are greater there that someone _is_ following you.”

He laughed. “It’s because you can be fairly confident _what’s_ following you in a city, and it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

We talked about nothing in particular the rest of the way into town. It was surprisingly relaxing walking through the not-quite-forest. There was just enough of a sea-scented breeze to keep one from getting overheated, and for once it was just me and Dorian, with no one else and no urgent task to accomplish. I decided I could get used to that complete lack of responsibility.

There wasn’t much more to the town than could be seen from the road, just houses and a few nondescript buildings that were probably for storage. We entered the pub, found it mostly empty. An old man was at the very back table, staring out the nearby window as he chewed methodically. A middle-aged woman was at another booth leafing through a circular, a half-full amber-coloured drink in front of her. Both of them looked at us when we walked in then went back to their activities. We took a table next to the window.

An adolescent girl wearing a blue pullover shirt and a short apron over grey trousers approached, deposited a glass of water each in front of us and said, “You after drink, food or both?”

We went with both.

“Menu tonight is fish stew, druffalo sandwiches with vegetables or fried potatoes, fish with vegetables or druffalo stew. If you want dessert there’s keksa squares or berry pie.” Inquiry revealed that “keksa” was a sort of chocolate cookie baked in a shallow pan then cut into squares. For a small extra charge, they’d put ice cream on it.

I opted for the sandwich with vegetables, Dorian for the fish stew, and we both asked for coffee. That made her smile. 

“Really? Most people round here drink tea. You’re lucky my da likes coffee—he owns this place and does the cooking most days. Guess you’re not from around here, huh?”

We confirmed we weren’t, and that appeared to satisfy her curiosity. “We got quality beer and wine here too. Make it here on the Reach, so it’s nothing like that watered-down stuff on the mainland.” She disappeared through the door to the kitchen.

“Interesting,” Dorian took an experimental drink of water. “If she’s the norm, people here have a completely different accent than yours.”

“Not surprising, really. Ostwickers didn’t settle Brandel’s Reach. It was already its own little world back when Ostwick was turning from another shitty little fishing village into a major port.”

“They don’t sound Ferelden either.”

I grinned. “Everything I hear, they don’t like Ferelden. Some incident a few hundred years ago involving a group of young Fereldan soldiers and their Mabari hounds. Islanders have long memories and hold grudges, so Fereldens aren’t welcome here even if they leave the dogs at home.”

“I wonder how they feel about Tevinter.”

“I think you’d be better served making them wonder what exotic land you hail from.”

Dorian sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I shall be a man of mystery.”

“And what does that make me? Your faithful bodyguard?”

“You said it, not me.” 

The girl came back with large mugs of coffee; I voiced my approval for their size. She gave me what looked like a genuine smile. “Like I said, Da likes coffee. He figures _he_ likes a proper mug, so customers would too.” She sailed off again, diverting to take the woman’s empty glass.

“If Da makes good food I shall be ecstatic,” I said. “But we should stop at the store. I didn’t see anything to make coffee with in the house.”

“Truly a dire state of affairs,” Dorian said with a slight smirk. 

“You won’t be so amused tomorrow morning. Is it just me or does this place seem nicer than it should be? Do they really get that much business off travelers?”

“You find the quality upkeep suspicious? The job _is_ making you paranoid.”

“I’m not sounding any alarms yet. It’s just odd.” The interior was all different varieties of polished wood. One wall had boards of different colours arranged in appealing patterns. The window wall was all dark wood with light trim above, light wood wainscoting with dark trim to the height of the tables. The final two walls matched the golden-brown wood of the tables. It all felt like it belonged in some place far more sophisticated to my mind.

The woman got up and headed to the front to pay. She gave us both a long, assessing look as she passed by. I felt as if I should call her over, but had no idea what I’d say. The old man was still chewing determinedly at the back table. There was a line of paintings along the top of one wall—mostly seascapes depicting different seasons, but one caught my attention. The artist gave the impression of a forest at night, with the moon shining down in the centre of a glade, illuminating a curious plant with ghostly white flowers. It was pretty and rather eerie, but what interested me was the darkness at the perimeter of the scene. There appeared to be something there with an unsettlingly indistinct form, eyes reflecting in the moonlight. 

I was about to point it out to Dorian when the food arrived, and for a time we concentrated on that. It turned out in addition to a commendable attitude toward coffee, Da _did_ know how to cook. The food was flavourful and well-prepared, and we were both a trifle mystified that he chose to stay in this little nothing of a village. It removed any urgency we may have felt about getting things we could prepare for ourselves. We ordered drinks after—beer for me, wine for Dorian that he declared uninspired, whatever that was supposed to mean—and watched the sun setting over the water. As our server circled the room lighting lamps, I finally remembered the strange painting.

Dorian studied it for several long moments. “It’s both attractive and unsettling, isn’t it? Doesn’t really fit in with the others. I wonder if it’s fancy or a faithful reproduction of something the artist saw.”

“We could search for ghost flowers,” I suggested.

He smiled. “That is destined to become an in-joke, you know.” 

The girl came to ask if we wanted more drinks. Dorian took advantage to ask her, “Excuse me, but that painting of the flowers up there—can you tell us anything about it?”

She gave us a blank look, glanced up at the painting, her expression only slightly less blank when she turned back to us. “Not really. It’s always been here. It was in with my gran’s things, I think. Or maybe it was in the attic? Da might know more.”

I was getting curious to meet Da as I tried to draw a mental picture of this paragon. Dorian asked if there was any chance we could talk to him about it.

She perked up. “You wanna buy it?”

“Perhaps, if the price is right.” He gave her an urbane smile that she answered with a self-conscious one.

“I’ll ask him to talk to you first chance he has.”

A short, heavy man and woman entered the restaurant trailed by a bored-looking adolescent girl; the server drifted away to greet them. All three of the new arrivals stared at us. We ignored them.

The sun was mostly down and we were on our third drink—Dorian had come to terms with his wine’s lack of inspiration—when a man emerged from the doorway to the kitchen and headed to our table. He was of average height, with short brown hair, dark brown eyes, and either a short beard or long stubble, depending on how you looked at it. He was wearing a cook’s apron, and was around forty-five years old, give or take ten years.

He introduced himself as “Alson Clare. My daughter said you were interested in a painting?”

First we complimented his cooking, telling him we’d likely be in nightly for the next fortnight, then moved onto the painting.

“Can’t tell you much about it.” He pursed his lips. “We were putting some of my ma’s stuff up in the attic when I ran across it, in its own special box like someone cared about it, but nothing to say who it belonged to or who painted it. There were some papers in with it, but they didn’t seem to have much to do with it. I just hung it up because it’s well done and it seemed a shame to leave it in a box in the dark. If you’re interested in buying it, it’s not a precious family heirloom.”

“We would be interested,” I said. “What would you consider a fair price?”

We negotiated a bit because it wouldn’t have felt right not to, but what he asked really was a fair price. We got him to agree to throw in the box and papers he’d found with it. Since we were planning on returning the next day, he’d have it ready for us then. With both sides satisfied, he went back to work, we finished our drinks and paid the bill. 

It was full dark when we set out on the walk back home.

In just a few days it would be one of those rare times when the big moon—fast becoming just a sliver in the sky—was new and the ghost moon was full. The little ghost moon didn’t cast a lot of light, and it was easy to forget it even existed with the big bastard overshadowing it most of the time. Already the quality of the fainter light felt different, adding to the otherworldly sense of our surroundings. The sound of the sea against the rocks faded as we went deeper into the wooded area, but the salt tang remained in the air, carried to us by a mild breeze that rustled the foliage. Shadows were soft and shapes indistinct and it felt like the world was holding its breath. We could have dispelled much of the feeling by casting light, but neither of us did. Instead Dorian took my hand and we walked through a night made magical in a way that had nothing to do with spellcasting.

We reached the house without incident and spent the rest of the night in pursuits that were mostly unmagical but still pleasantly diverting.


	2. Chapter 2

Conditioned by too many road trips over the last few years, I awoke all at once though it took me a moment to remember where I was. Dorian was already up, which wasn’t unusual. He’s not a morning person, but he’s more of one than I am. I got dressed with the horrible realization that we’d forgotten to stop at the store yesterday. Which meant I had no coffee.

I emerged from the bedroom and could swear I smelled coffee, was grudgingly admitting to myself that perhaps people’s assessment of my addiction was correct given I was hallucinating the scent. I also was not looking forward to the trek to the outhouse and was working myself into a foul mood when Dorian said, “Good morning!”

He sounded so cheery I almost snapped at him out of reflex. Fortunately I curbed my reaction and looked at him first. He was proffering a large mug of—

“Is that…you got coffee? Where did you get it?” 

He gave me a smile that somehow conveyed amusement, love and a little self-congratulation all at once. “I woke up a few hours ago and couldn’t get back to sleep, finally gave it up as a lost cause. I wanted tea and we didn’t have any, which brought me to the dire realization that we hadn’t fetched your coffee things. So I took a pleasant walk down to the village and managed to find coffee that appears sufficiently dark to satisfy you, one of those Antivan coffee presses, though a rather antiquated model, and a very nice tea I’ve already tried. I even got breakfast—there is a fine assortment of pastries both sweet and savory in that box.” Said box was big enough to contain pastries for several people, which meant we wouldn’t have to worry about sustenance before we went back to town for dinner. 

“Thank you!” I gave him an appreciative hug, promised I wouldn’t kiss him until my morning breath had been banished. “You saved my life. I was just getting ready to be very cross.”

“The prospect of you uncoffeed when we’re out in the middle of nowhere was more than I could bear to consider.” He gave a theatrical shudder. 

“You are fantastically resourceful—I’m sure your peers back in Tevinter would be scandalized.” He gave a snort of agreement. “I’ll be right back. Can’t believe I have to put on my boots just to use the facilities,” I groused.

“You _could_ brave the trek without footwear.” Dorian returned to the kitchen, pumped some water into his teacup and cast heat.

“I could, but you know as well as I that I’d undoubtedly step on something poisonous, painful, disgusting, or all of the above. And I’m certainly not walking into a bloody outhouse barefoot.”

“I agree it would be foolhardy. I was merely stating it would be possible.” He dropped tea into a little metal infuser, dropped that into his cup.

I said, “Hah,” and exited stage outhouse.

_-#-_

Once the excitement of morning ablutions was over and I’d had sufficient coffee to feel like myself, we discussed the prospect of entire days ahead with nothing we were required to do, and no close-by entertainment venues.

“I’m afraid exploring the village isn’t a lively prospect,” Dorian said, absently stroking the patch of hair under his lower lip. “The emporium is interesting in that it’s apparently been acquiring oddities along with necessities since the middle of Blessed at least, but it’s not large enough to be an all-day adventure.”

“Well, we could either go to the beach or explore around here. Everything I’ve heard, this part of Brandel’s Reach isn’t nearly as well known and mapped as the Ferelden side.”

“Really? Did they say why?”

I shook my head. “No idea. It’s like no one wants to talk about it.”

“If that’s true, I think a bit of probing is in order. Besides, it’s windy enough I don’t really fancy a day at the shore. There’s more than enough cold air back at Skyhold.” He made a moue.

“Don’t worry, I’m sick of the cold too,” I assured him. “Who knows, maybe we’ll find something interesting.”

“A new kind of poisonous shrub? Predatory rabbits? The possibilities are endless.”

We stocked a rucksack each with water and a selection of pastries, set a beacon spell on the house so we’d be able to find our way back, and struck out into unknown territory. I had the nagging feeling we were supposed to be searching for a rift to close, but that was just force of habit. Since we’d defeated Corypheus and gone over half the damn map doing mop-up operations, it appeared most if not all of the rifts were gone. Brandel’s Reach had never had any.

The day was much like our first—warm but overcast with a steady breeze. The area around the house was lightly forested, with smaller trees and low underbrush beneath the bigger ones. The trees still had most of their leaves, but they were a riot of yellow, orange and red with small patches of green. The forest floor was carpeted with them, and between the breeze and whatever was moving past and around us, the leaves were constantly rustling. The terrain was all uphill as we moved further inland, but the incline was mild enough that it wasn’t a strain. We chatted as we walked.

“Have you noticed it feels different here?” Dorian asked.

“I put it down to its being an island, but yes,” I said. Out of curiosity, I slid my vision into the magical spectrum and stopped walking as I took in the vision before me. “Dorian, have you looked around here magically?”

He stopped too, was silent for several moments. “Fascinating. The very ground appears to be saturated with magic, but it’s so subtle!” 

“I think it’s very old. That’s what it feels like to me. That and…it doesn’t feel like normal, if that makes sense.”

“It does. There’s something odd about it.” He stroked his moustache, unconsciously striking a pose. “My spirits seem to agree with you. This place doesn’t exactly _excite_ them, but they’re certainly more alert than usual.”

As a necromancer, Dorian dealt with spirits associated with death on a regular basis. Some of them he’d associated with for many years to the point where they had, if not friendship, at least a mutually agreeable working relationship. Among other things, they often alerted him if death was imminent or nearby.

Without trying to analyse why, we picked a direction that felt right and kept walking.

“So, you have a birthday coming right up,” he said with far too much cheer. “You’ll be five years older than me again. Thirty- _seven_.”

“It does no good to tease me; it doesn’t bother me. The only thing that bothers me is all the time that was stolen from me.”

“That practical streak of yours surfaces at the most annoying times.”

“You’d prefer I have histrionics over my advancing age?”

“A simple _hmph_ and perhaps a wistful glance at my still-youthful grace would be sufficient.” He gave me a cheeky grin.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Hmph. You can demonstrate that youthful grace after we’re in for the night by catering to my every whim. As you went out of your way to remind me, I’m your elder so you have to respect my approaching decrepitude and attend me.”

“I thought I did that last night.”

“You’re the one who wanted to wave their youthful grace in my face.”

Dorian began to reply then stopped, squinting ahead of us. “Amatus, am I imagining things or is there a structure ahead?”

I looked, squinting too in the glary light. “I think there is. Hard to be sure from here. These woods play tricks on you. Shall we investigate?”

“I think we shall.” We resumed walking. Dorian stroked the hair under his lower lip. “When you said the woods play tricks…does that mean you’re seeing things out the corner of your eyes again?”

“Mm hm. I’ve been telling myself it’s local wildlife. You think it’s something more?”

“Depends on what the local wildlife consists of. I’m willing to entertain every possibility.” We pushed through a dense thicket; when we emerged, Dorian had a twig full of small flowers lodged in his hair. Naturally it managed to look dashing and deliberate. “They seem thicker around here. The corner-of-the-eye things, that is.”

“I want to get a closer look at that painting tonight. See if the creature behind the ghost flower looks familiar.” We walked up a small rise and when we reached the other side there was no doubt. We were approaching a structure the size of a large house.

“It looks like a chantry, but what happened to it?” Dorian said.

“Something or someone didn’t like that day’s sermon?” Aside from the normal wear and tear you’d expect an abandoned building in the woods to have, there were signs something had gone terribly wrong. 

“Parts of it look…scorched,” 

“We’re going inside to investigate, though.”

“Of course. What’s a little scorching among friends?”

The building was mostly grey brick with a wooden second story. Like most chantries, it had a low series of steps up to a wide central entrance with double wooden doors designed to impress. Though they were scratched and scored and weathered, the doors were still locked, and someone had further secured the door handles by wrapping a rusting length of chain around and through the handles. Rather than force them open, we chose to look for other entries. There’s always a back door somewhere.

We found it round the side—a regular-sized service entrance. The door was still intact there, too, but the entire locking mechanism was missing. It was one of the areas that looked singed. I used a force spell to open it just in case any nasty surprises had been left behind, but it just opened creakily.

It was unclear what the room it opened on was originally meant for—it was empty but for a battered copy of the Chant thrown carelessly in a corner. Even the debris on the floor was just a dull assortment of leaves and rubble. We passed through it, headed down a hall with a deep set of scratch marks embedded in the right-hand wall. “Could be a fade demon. Or a bear,” Dorian commented.

“All in all, I’ve had better luck with bears,” I said. “Why would a chantry have truck with any demon?”

“Just being neighbourly?” Dorian quipped as he smoothed his hair. He encountered the flowered twig, studied it and gave me an accusing look.

“I didn’t put it there,” I protested.

“You could have told me.”

“It looked charming. Like you and nature are on a first-name basis.”

The hall led us to a doorway opening on the area behind the raised platform where the chantry sisters would give their chants and sermons. It gave us a vantage point from which to view the whole main room and it was evident something catastrophic had happened there long ago. Pews were knocked asunder, some completely overturned, and there were more scorch marks and splattered stains everywhere. The piece de resistance to the destruction was just behind the lectern at the center front of the dais. There, a literal hole had been blown through the floor, boards blasted up and reduced to splinters. The podium and everything around it were splashed with gouts of old blood.

“I think they pissed something off,” I said.

“What would be good to know is if it was one big something, or a lot of little ones?” Dorian cast something necromantic. 

“Why not both as long as we’re speculating? What spell is that?” 

“Just seeing if there are any echoes of what happened still here. Perhaps a lost soul or something. Believe it or not, this place is clear.”

“Someone must have put the bodies to rest since they’re not still in here. Maybe that was enough.” There was a little door on the lectern that was still intact. I opened it, found nothing but a layer of dust. “I wonder if there’s any record of this place and what happened to it.”

“We could ask the townspeople. Or at least that cook. They probably have a strictly enforced code of silence on the matter.”

I chuckled. “No doubt. Goes with the fish god rituals. Maybe the chantry here tried to invoke a rival god?”

“Like who? There aren’t a lot of gods to choose from in Andrastianism. They may have been up to some tricks the head office would disapprove of. For one thing, there was magic used here.”

We peered down the hole. It was dark. Casting light down it just revealed an empty space and a continuation of the hole. I doubted it was bottomless, but it wasn’t worth concentrating on. I said, “Want to check the basement?”

“You don’t think others already have?”

I shrugged. “People miss things. Or they’re only looking for things they can sell. Besides, we’re right here.”

So we left the blasted chapel and explored the rest of the building. People had indeed been through it—drawers and closets had been opened, and most of the items still there were junk. There were just enough interesting bits and pieces to convince us to keep looking. The bits we kept and stuck in a bag were: A gold charm fashioned to look like a wedge of cheese, lovingly placed in a small padded jewelry box hidden inside a sock; Charts of the stars and constellations, with notes and things circled; A metal ring from which rose a sharp, barbed hook; and a slim journal hidden in the false bottom of a desk drawer in one of the small bedrooms.

We found the door to the basement and, after some debate (which in my case concerned spiders while Dorian was more wary of general grubbiness), decided to have a quick look. There wasn’t much to see. One room held the furnace and an elderly pile of coal. A mostly-empty storage room held a few boxes of the chant of light, another of candle stubs, a box of mildewed chantry robes and a set of porcelain tableware that was astoundingly ugly. We kept well away from the hole in the floor when we crossed that room; patterns and sigils etched into the floor suggested they’d been up to something no Chantry had ever taught them.

At the far end of the basement was one more smallish room that appeared to have been living quarters. It held a narrow bed, a small bureau and bookshelf, and a chest at the foot of the bed. A candle holder rested on the bureau, empty and like everything else down there, covered with a layer of dust. The drawers held linen trousers and shirt for someone tall and thin. They were institutional grey and guaranteed to be unflattering. The bookshelf was empty but for a copy of the ubiquitous Chant of Light and a thick, oversized book that would have been brightly coloured when it was new. Dorian picked it up and frowned in puzzlement.

“ _A Child’s Guide to Thedas?_ Who were they holding down here?”

The chest wasn’t locked, just stiff with age and grime. I applied a little force and it popped open. There was another shirt (institutional green), a small bag of polished rocks and a larger bag with its drawstring pulled tight. Inside was a mass of soft fur that turned out to be a stuffed toy. It was a fennec, cunningly constructed so it looked real. It wasn’t much smaller than a real fennec, and was in perfect condition. I realized I was absently stroking it as Dorian came to view my finds.

“That’s adorable; we should have a portrait commissioned of you like that,” he said with a grin.

“I’m taking it. It’s too nice to leave down here. I’m taking these too.” I showed him the bag of rocks.

“You really are a bit of a magpie.” He gave the fennec a pat on the head. “Soft! They did do an impressive job. The fennec goes with the book, but I don’t see any other indication there was a child here.”

“Maybe the owner of the ugly clothes was mentally a child?” I speculated.

“Either way I can’t imagine anyone would enjoy being held here.”

“Yeah.” I put the fennec back in its protective bag. “Let’s get out of here. I think we’ve seen all there is to see.”

_=#=_

We found a thick fallen log in a sunny spot some way from the dead chantry and stopped there to eat our lunch. Dorian seemed oddly preoccupied.

“Something wrong?” I finally asked.

He gave an annoyed huff. “I don’t know. Have you ever had the feeling someone or some _thing_ is watching you?”

“Since I got the damn Anchor, frequently.” I glared at my hand.

“I don’t mean in that way. I mean something possibly not human. Or any other race. Perhaps not even corporeal.”

That got me interested. “I have, yes, but I’m not feeling that now. You are?”

“Yes. Almost since we got here, but it’s more intense now. It’s…whatever it or they are, they want something.”

“Any feeling what kind of something? I mean, do they want you to do something, or do they want to eat you?”

He made a frustrated noise. “I wish I knew. I get a sense of _need, need, need_ but it’s mixed up with other sensations and it’s not constant. It comes and goes. My spirits don’t know what to make of it either.”

“Hopefully that means they don’t want you dead.”

That got me a crooked smile. “You _are_ a ray of sunshine today.”

“Perish the thought. You know I’m darkness personified. I’m just cheerfully dark because you surprised me with coffee.”

“Ah. And what about Darkness Personified’s new stuffed fennec? It’s got an adorably cheery look on its face.”

“Found in a dark basement in a mysteriously ruined chantry. It qualifies.” I blinked, pointed with my chin slightly to the right of us. “Dorian, I swear something just ran past over there. It wasn’t in the least shaped like a fennec or any other animal. You think that’s what’s been watching you?”

“It’s a reasonable assumption but I just don’t know. It’s getting worse. Like having an incipient nagging headache.”

“Do you want to head back?”

“We may as well. I think we’ve exhausted the entertainment possibilities of this spot.” He opened his rucksack to get his water flask and I saw the _Child’s Guide to Thedas._

“You kept the book? When did you take it?”

He smiled. “You were preoccupied opening the trunk. I had to take it—look at it. It’s an antique in marvellous condition. If it’s concurrent with everything else in that room, we should be able to determine how long ago this place was destroyed.”

“I think we should ask in town. Someone should know something about it.”

We started back towards home, the locator spell keeping us heading in the right direction. The wind had gotten stronger, carrying a hint of the winter to come with it. Rather than cast a heat spell, I pulled a black bandana out of my coat pocket and tied it around my head. Vivienne had once accused me of resembling a pirate with it on, but Dorian declared it made me look rakish. I ignored her and went with his assessment. Besides, cold and a shaved head don’t go together.

“There!” Dorian said in a fierce whisper.

“There what?” I kept my voice low as well.

“I saw something running that way. Follow me.”

We went away from the setting sun into a darkening copse of trees, their leaves glowing orange-red in the light. Dorian stopped in a narrow clearing, took a few slow, deliberate steps forward then to the right. He muttered, “What?” eyes searching the ground, then, “Venhedis.” He scraped a patch of leaves away then searched until he found a sturdy stick. “I need to dig here. Care to help?”

“Sure. You’ve got me curious.” I found a stick of my own and crouched next to him. “What are we digging for?”

“I’m not sure. I expect we’ll know when we see it.”

“If this is going to become a regular thing we should buy a shovel.”

“I suppose that would be more expedient than learning earth magic. Ouch. These hands were not made for digging in the ground with sticks.”

A few minutes later my stick struck something. We uncovered it carefully, not knowing if the sticks would damage whatever it was. Using a force spell to blow the dirt off, Dorian finally lifted it out of its earthen tomb. It was a neutral greyish colour, semi-translucent and looked like a humanoid foot and partial lower leg.

I said, “What the fuck?”

He turned it over and around, studying it as if professionally assessing its worth. “It doesn’t look dead.”

I wrinkled my nose at him. “It doesn’t look alive either. Does it not bother you that you’re holding someone’s lower leg? They’d probably like it back.”

“What would you suggest—we take out a small ad in the Island Gazette? _Found: one body part. Send a description of your missing body part and we’ll tell you if it’s yours we have.”_

I snort-laughed. “Point taken. But even as a necromancer, you could’ve shown a modicum of appropriate gravitas.”

“Would it help if I said ‘ick’? Honestly, it just doesn’t _feel_ like a normal body part alive _or_ dead. Here, see for yourself.” 

Dorian handed it to me. I said, “Ick” just to keep up appearances, but soon understood what he meant. It had an odd texture, smooth and dense, and was surprisingly heavy. “It can’t be something from the Fade. Those things dissipate after a time. Have you heard of anything matching this description?”

He shook his head. “I’ve no idea. I saw something black moving this way, and got an overwhelming compulsion to dig when we stepped into the clearing. When I checked with my spirits they weren’t acting like they normally do around death, but they seemed…interested. What do you suppose it’s made of?”

“Nothing I’ve seen before. It seems something wanted you to find it, so I suppose we’d better take it. I can’t see how a disembodied foot is much of a threat.”

“Put it in the stable. We don’t know where it’s been.”

I gave an amused snort. “All in all, I think I got the better souvenir. I’d really like to know what’s in that journal.”

“It’ll probably turn out to be a list of complaints the writer had about everyone else in the chantry, but I’d like to know too.”

=#=

“Well, fancy that!”

“Fancy what?” I set my coffee on the table and sat next to Dorian on the couch. 

His eyes were bright with that enthusiasm he gets when he discovers something interesting. “This journal is written in a slightly archaic dialect of Tevene!”

“Which you can read, I hope.”

“I can indeed. Shall I tell you some time how many mouldy old tomes I have perused in my pursuit of knowledge?”

“I have a pretty good idea. The bigger question is why was someone writing a journal in Tevene in a Brandel’s Reach chantry? Were they hosting Tevinter refugees here?”

He settled closer to me, returned his attention to the journal. “I’m not holding out hope that they’ll tell us, but you never know.”

I kept quiet so he could read. It was chilly enough we’d lit a fire and closed the blinds. Tree branches silhouetted by the late afternoon sun made shifting patterns as they were buffeted by the wind. I didn’t quite admit to myself that I was watching for shapes that weren’t branches, but it was in the back of my mind. Whatever was going on seemed to be centered around Dorian, but there wasn’t enough information to understand why.

“This is interesting. Our journal-writer was using Tevene as her own secret language. She didn’t think the Chantry would approve of what she was doing.”

“What _was_ she doing?”

“They sent her here to the Brandel’s Reach chantry because they wanted her somewhere out of the way,” he continued. “I think the Chantry was already annoyed with her.”

“They were cruel to her?”

“Not at all. They…let me see. I’m not familiar with this turn of phrase. If I’m reading this correctly, it says the man who fell from the heavens is real.”

I draped an arm across his shoulders. “That’s not a tale I’m familiar with. And what would it have to do with the Chantry?”

“I may find out the latter if I finish reading this. As for the former, I’m surprised you haven’t heard a version. It’s an old story. The essence of it is once, long, long ago, a being made of star-stuff plummeted from the heavens, landing in the sea somewhere on Thedas. Upon making it to shore, it rested for three days—I don’t know why that’s always deemed important to mention—then tried to return to its home only to find it couldn’t. For many days and nights—usually a sufficiently impressive number—it tried, sometimes several times a day, sometimes only once. Finally the cold truth of its situation became clear—it was trapped here on Thedas. It couldn’t return to roam the stars. Despondent, it found a lonely place where it would not be disturbed and fell into an eternal sleep.”

“No warnings about it being angry if it was awakened?”

“Oddly, no. The general consensus among folklorists in Tevinter was the being was probably one of the elvhen, and the story described its decision to enter Uthenera. This suggests the story is accurate and our interpretation isn’t.”

“I still think we should ask around the village. All we need to do is leave a little early for dinner.”

“I agree. This is taking on the trappings of a bona fide mystery.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I love shops like this.”

Dorian grinned. “Of course you do, with those magpie tendencies.”

I pretended to be annoyed. “Well, I guarantee the proprietor will be happier to talk to us if we buy something. I am merely trying to help.”

He just said, “Mm hmm,” with a faint smile. 

The village’s general store wasn’t terribly large but it made up for it with a fascinating array of stock. We didn’t have time for me to completely indulge myself—I’d already decided to make another, more leisurely trip there before we had to leave—so I tried to limit myself to finding a small item or two. There were a lot of badly-designed figurines—a gaudily-dressed lumberjack standing next to a demented-looking bear holding a stick, for example—but mixed in among them was a black and silver metal dragon that was articulated so it could rear up on its hind legs, flap its wings and open its jaws. It was beautifully detailed, and it would be both simple and fun to add a set spell so it would breathe a little fireball when its jaws opened. It was a little pricey, but the Inquisition was paying and as far as I was concerned, they owed me. 

As I predicted, the woman behind the counter was much more friendly and willing to chat once we purchased something. She asked us how we were liking the area, we said it was quite nice then I asked, “Can you tell us anything about the old chantry up in the woods?”

“You went all the way up there? Don’t know why anyone would want to mess about in that old place. It’s unsavoury.”

“In what way?” Dorian asked.

“I don’t know the particulars. Just that the sisters up there split from the path of Andraste, bad things happened and it’s been tainted ever since. People see things when they’re up there. Sometimes people don’t come back if they stay out there too long.” She gave us a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sure it all sounds like silly superstition to you, but it’s a good place to stay away from. ‘Specially when the ghost moon’s the only one in the sky.”

“Something happens then?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not the one to ask. Alson up the pub is the one you want to talk to. He knows the local history better than anyone since Mother Merle passed on. You likely met Alson, yes? Pull him away from his kitchen and he’ll tell you all manner of stories about the bad old days.”

We thanked her and went up to the pub where we saw the ghost flower picture was gone from the wall, replaced by an amateurish depiction of blood lotuses by a pond. 

Alson’s daughter—Imogen, we learned—was on serving duty again and we were pleased to see the only other people there were a couple sharing a bottle of wine at a back table and a threesome who already had their food and drink. We told her we wanted to talk to Alson as well as eat, and she told us to order first; he’d talk to us while we dined if we were okay with that.

Once our plates were in front of us, Alson emerged from the kitchen carrying the square, flat box that contained the painting. He propped it on an empty seat and took the other for himself.

“There you go, sers. It’s a quiet night, so I’ll take my break now.” Imogen plunked a mug of coffee down in front of him and sailed away again, giving him a little wave as he thanked her. “I understand you got questions?”

I said, “Several. For one thing, what might you know of the story behind that abandoned chantry up in the forest?”

He gave a sour grunt. “That place. Too late to say don’t go up there, so I’ll recommend don’t go back there. It’s all ancient history, but some ugly shite went down there. There’s reason to believe an echo of it’s still going on.”

“Do you know what happened, or is it buried in the past?”

He leaned his elbows on the table, gave a heavy sigh. “Wouldn’t claim to know everything, but I know enough. The real expert was a lady who just passed this year.”

“Mother Merle?” Dorian said.

Alson blinked. “That’s right. Guess you been asking around? She was near a hundred when she died and the story was before _her_ time, but it might’ve been her parents or grandparents that was there.” 

“Was she associated with the Chantry?”

“You mean because of the mother part?” He grinned. “Nah, she just had a mess of kids and over time everyone started calling her that. I guess I was one of the only ones that was interested in her stories—her own kids was grown and gone, and her grandkids just rolled their eyes and complained if she talked about the old days. She liked telling them and I liked hearing them, so these days I guess I’m the resident expert on Reach history.” He gave us a wry smile. “Always did like history, but there’s no money in it, so I became a cook. “

“Did you ever write down any of her stories?” I asked.

“Nah. I know I should before I go too, but I just haven’t had time. Maybe it’ll be my project once I hand the place over to Imogen and retire. Anyway, you wanna know about that chantry. I’ll tell it to you the way Mother Merle told me.

**_chapter three point five_ **

Brandel’s Reach has always gone its own way even though everyone pretends we’re just like the mainland but slower. It’s nearly true on the Ferelden side with its port and calm seas, but the Marches side has always been wild. The winds and rougher seas and rocky beaches don’t appeal to most folk, so those who choose to live here are mostly unbothered by what goes on in the wider world, and we like it that way. The northern Reach has its own history and its own way of doing things.

Despite or more likely because of that, the Chantry came to Northreach—what? Yes, that’s the name of this village. You mean no one told you?—sometime in Steel Age, when the oxmen was trying to take over all the lands, and told us we needed one of their churches here. Well, most folk were fine with Andraste in a general way and we rarely ever had mage children for them to snatch away, so we agreed long as they built some ways out of town. The Reach keeps out of military goings-on, so we drew the line at Templars, but they was welcome to teach those who were inclined about their Chant. They didn’t bother anyone much, and for many years things went on much as always.

Now as I said, the Reach has always been different, and the why of it has been passed down for as long as anyone can remember. Do you know the tale of the man who fell from the stars? Good. Well, people here on the Reach have always maintained that it was here that he fell—landed right out there in the Waking Sea—and here where he hid himself away to sleep his eternal sleep. That star essence—I don’t know if it’s magic or just comes of not being of Thedas—it runs through everything on the Reach, specially here in the North, ‘cause he’s not truly dead so over the years it’s just spread throughout the very bones of the island. Some say it’s why the oxmen stayed away; with their hatred of magic, it could be.

Wellser, being the Reach is different and, let’s face it, rest of the world thinks of us as a backwater if they think of us at all, that Chantry over to the mainland wasn’t after sending their top people here. They sent sisters and brothers they thought would benefit from being stuck in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe it was the other way around—sending those sisters and brothers here where they were out of the way benefitted the Chantry. 

Sometime in the Storm Age, one of those sisters was a woman named Sister Elizabez. They’d sent her to Northreach for asking too many uncomfortable questions and requesting research material the Chantry didn’t admit to having. They say she was a curious woman, and very intense about her interests. Those interests weren’t the sort you expect out of a Chantry type—she had a fascination with hidden histories and secret things. You might say it was only a matter of time.

Somewhere along the line, she heard that tale of the man who fell from the stars and being intense and curious—reading between the lines, I don’t think she got on well with her less-curious colleagues—she set her talents to researching it. Don’t know who or what she talked to, but she was convinced the tales were true. And that’s when things started to go funny. See, she got it in her mind that it would be a grand idea to find him and…I don’t rightly know what. Wake him? Study him? That’s if a creature like that can even be called a ‘him’—don’t see why the stars would give a whit. I suspect it became a him because people are lazy, but that’s neither here nor there.

Now, the way Merle told it to me, this Sister Elizabez went at proving her theory with all the passion she was supposed to be devoting to Andraste. Along the way she convinced a few others what she was doing was right and necessary, and they _searched._ They studied old tomes and talked to everyone on the Reach that’d give ‘em the time of day. One of them even went to Denerim and all the way to Markham to access their libraries. And make a long story short, she did it. She found the place where the man from the stars was sleeping. She told the Chantry mother, told her they needed to wake him. Said for all they knew, he could be the Maker, not gone as the Chant claimed, but asleep. He could have been from the Black City, or an avatar from beyond the world who could give them wisdom to better understand and worship Andraste. She must’ve been damned convincing, because she got the heads of that chantry to agree.

So one day a group of them went to the place. It’s said it was a quiet grove that had a magic of some sort that always made people steer clear of it until Elizabez and her people pushed through; it was no match for their passion. They brought tools with them, and they shattered the peace of the grove with their digging. It took them some time—could be hours, could be days—but damned if they didn’t find him, sleeping deep beneath the earth.

An elf? No, there’s no record of that. I think someone would’ve said something if they’d gone to all that trouble just for an elf. The descriptions are all over the place—they didn’t seem to be able to decide _what_ he really looked like—but tall, thin and kind of glowing were pretty common. Nothing about pointy ears. Nothing about ears at all, for that matter.

They carried their prize back to the chantry and I don’t know how, but they woke him up. You might say that’s when the real trouble started, and wasn’t a bit of it the fault of that poor bastard from the heavens. I think they’d convinced themselves that he truly was some sort of avatar of the Maker, when instead what he mostly was, was confused. Maker only knows how long he’d been under there, not knowing a thing about the world above, so of course he had no idea who these people were, what a Chantry was, or even how to speak the language. That didn’t sit well with the truly devout group.

Elizabez, she wasn’t one of them. She still thought there was more to him, that he was something special. Was her that took on teaching him with the help those couple of like-minded colleagues. _She_ was convinced he’d tell her of the spaces between the stars, maybe even the secrets of the Maker himself. 

The final group in their little opera were the ones who didn’t want any truck with it at all and wanted him to go back his grove and sleep, with all mention of him stricken from the records. They thought meddling in things that ancient was just begging for doom to rain down. They were right, of course, but everyone was too busy arguing.

Things get a little hazy right around then because not much was being written down about the goings-on out of the public eye. The devout group was busy convincing themselves the star being wasn’t just alien, but evil, and his complete lack of knowledge about Andraste and the Maker was proof of that. And it follows that if it was evil, it should be put down, yes? Perhaps along with the people who woke him up in the first place.

Elizabez knew of their escalation, but either didn’t believe they were dangerous or chose to ignore it. Some say she was half in love with her star man, others point to a more practical agenda. She came to understand the creature, though friendly and comely enough, was truly alien. Thing is, that didn’t dissuade her. She’d decided to teach it the language and ways of Thedas. Some cynical sorts say her goal was to teach it Andrastianism then use it as the avatar she’d been hoping it was. After all, if you had the Thedosian representative of the Maker at your side, becoming Divine should be a piece of cake.

Well, she continued work with her star man, the handful of traditionalists tried to convince the others to just take it back to its grove, and the devout group grew more unhinged. Perhaps they were reacting badly to the energy of the being, or perhaps it was just the typical madness that can take hold in small, isolated groups of people from time to time.

Whatever the reason, they’d concocted a plot of their own. I don’t know if they hired the blood mage or if it was a member of the Chantry who’d escaped the notice of the Templars before being sent to Northreach. They’d rationalized that they had to do what they were doing to appease Andraste and set things to rights. So they kidnapped an old man who lived alone in the woods and used his blood to fuel the magic to call up their very own demon, timing it while the moderates were at evening services in the chantry and Elizabez was elsewhere on the grounds with her protégé. 

The demon boiled up through the ground, bursting through the floor right behind the lectern where the chantry mother was speaking. She never knew what hit her when it tore her head off with one swipe of its massive claws. Chantry personnel and a few innocent worshippers from the village tried to flee but found they couldn’t. See, the fanatics had locked and barred the doors. While they tried to escape or hide, the demon raged through the room rending and tearing at people until there was none left to entertain it. As you could see from the old staining in there (yes, I went up to have a look once when I was young and foolish), it was a bloodbath.

They unlocked the back door after and the mage got the demon back under control, waiting while the group of fanatics tracked down Elizabez’s few allies. They were murdered in cold blood, their bodies added to the abattoir in the main chapel. Then they went after Elizabez and her charge. They lured her away from him long enough to capture her, locking her away till they were ready.

Kill him? Oh, no, that wasn’t what they were trying to do. Not just then. They told the creature he was beautiful, that he was touched by the Maker and they wished to treat him with the same reverence as Andraste herself. They took him back to the chantry (the living quarters, not the main chapel), bathed him, anointed him with fragrant oils and dressed him in fine robes. They had a fine meal, talked about the grace of the Maker and the courage of Andraste, broke out a rare vintage of wine after the meal. Then the most comely sister and brother took the man from the stars into their nicest bedchamber and gave themselves to him in the way of worldly things as they spoke soft words of love and reverence. 

At midnight, when only the ghost moon rode high and full in the sky—or at least that’s what the story says—they led him outside to find the group waiting. His companions for the evening joined them and they told him that, having honoured him, it was their duty and pleasure to return him to the Maker’s side, or to rid the world of him if he wasn’t the Maker’s avatar. Since there was a slim possibility he _was_ the Maker’s, they’d allow him a chance to be saved. _You have one minute. Now, run._

He may have been unfamiliar with the ways of humans, but he was no fool. He saw the murderous glee in their eyes and ran.

And those good sisters and brothers of the Chantry gave the man who fell from the sky his minute, then with swords and knives drawn, they hunted him down like an animal, chased him to the very grove where Elizabez found him asleep, and hacked him to death, and once he was dead, still they continued until his body was in pieces.

In some versions, two strong chantry brothers brought Elizabez there, held her bound while she watched her friend murdered.

Once they were done, they buried his head in the grove, and the rest of him throughout Northreach in random, unmarked holes. 

Elizabez? Remember that demon they called up? She was its payment. They gave her to it, still alive and bound. No one knows what happened once it took her, but you can imagine.

It took the villagers some time before people wondered why certain regulars from the chantry hadn’t been seen lately, and a few people decided to check on them. They found the place abandoned; then they found the charnel house that had once been a chapel. Deciding calling the authorities would only bring more interfering outsiders, Northreachers just burned the dead and left the place to rot. No one knows what happened to the murderers. Probably moved elsewhere and joined other chantries. They were never seen on the Reach again. 

Not much of an ending, I know, but that’s all I have.


	4. Chapter 4

With that, Alson declared he had to get back to work. We thanked him, settled our bill and bought some alcoholic fortification to take with us. Once again it was dark when we left. Another night or two and the sliver of the big moon would be gone, leaving the ghost moon high and alone in the night sky.

“That was quite the story,” Dorian said.

I said, “Mm hm,” and dug the bandana out of my coat pocket. There was a cold breeze blowing off the water.

He said, “How much of it do you believe?”

“Men who fall from the stars? A blood mage successfully hiding out in a chantry? Locals telling the templars to stay the fuck away and the templars obeying? Allowing for accrued inaccuracies and embellishments over time…most of it. After all, look what you dug up today.”

“You think that’s truly a part of him?”

“Don’t you?”

Now that there was no one to see, he let go the painting and levitated it alongside us. “I don’t know if I want to. There’s something about the idea of a humanoid entity _falling from the stars_ that I admit I find unsettling.”

“Really? It just makes me want to learn more. It’s a mystery.”

He looked sideways at me and chuckled. “You really are a rare and lovely creature, amatus.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re told something that could shatter people’s view of the world and our place in it, and you just want to go exploring and possibly sit down and have a chat with whatever otherworldly entities you might discover.”

“If this is about religion, even if everything they say about Andraste is true on this world—and I don’t believe it is—why should the idea of other people on other worlds be a problem? You think the Maker just made Thedas and stopped because we were clearly perfection? If he’s the Maker, isn’t that his job? To go about making things like worlds?”

“You do have a unique perspective. But while I grant you the idea of other people on other worlds shouldn’t be distressing, a person falling from all that space _between_ worlds…Think of it. How does that work? How would he survive?”

“Well, it’s not like anyone said he was human. He was just shaped like us. Maybe that’s even proof your Maker exists—he’s not very imaginative and reuses templates.”

Dorian laughed. “Fine. I give up. You’re impossible to discuss religious nuance with. But if the story is true, why did I feel the compulsion to dig a piece of whatever-he-is up? He’s been buried in pieces for nearly two hundred years and no one else seems to have been inclined to do so.”

“Maybe that journal we found will say something.”

“That’s probably overly optimistic, but I do want to read it when we get home.”

Leaves blew and fluttered around us, and neither of us mentioned the black shapes that flickered among them, appearing to pace us all the way back.

_=#=_

Fire lit and drinks on the coffee table (beer for me, wine for Dorian as usual), we settled on the couch. Dorian was armed with the journal, a fountain pen and notebook. I had a book to read while he worked.

For a time all was silent except for the sound of the fire, wind gusting outside, and Dorian’s pen scratching across paper. “This is better than I’d dared hope,” he finally said. “It’s her journal. Elizabez. Of her work with the _entiatus qui in Thedam._ ”

“Trade language please.”

“The entity that fell to Thedas. She felt it important enough to document but didn’t want anyone snooping because there were those who would report her to the Chantry on the mainland, who would strenuously disapprove. Thus the Tevene. She also records what she ate for breakfast each morning, but I’ll not bother to relate that unless you want me to.”

“I think I’ll be able to sleep without knowing that,” I said. “I do wonder how she knew Tevene in the first place.”

“Dismissing the possibility that she or her parents were from Tevinter, it’s practically _de rigueur_ among academics—particularly historians—to learn Tevene because so many of the old histories and manuscripts are written in it. As I’ve said repeatedly, we’re an old civilization and you know we got around. It’s only in your Circles it was frowned upon from what I gather. All that unapproved magic you might learn.”

I snorted. “One more thing to thank the fucking Chantry for. Someday you’ll have to teach me.”

“I’d be delighted. There’s an entire world of magic and history that would open up to you and I know you’d enjoy it.”

I thought again about stolen time. A flurry of shadows dashed by outside the window, moonlight silhouetting them against the blind. They didn’t look like leaves. I said, “I’m looking forward to it. Found anything interesting yet?”

He continued to write, his face a study in concentration. “Yes. Just getting some of the translation down. As I said, it’s a rather archaic form, so there are tricky turns of phrase now and then.”

More shadows flitted past. I cast a ward around the doors and windows to keep anything two-dimensional from sliding through the cracks. If Dorian noticed, he didn’t comment. I returned to my book, though I was no longer in the mood for it. Not for the first time I wished there was a way to have music or something playing without having to do it yourself or hire a musician; something to cover up the sounds of the wind and outside things rattling and rustling their counterpoint to the soft crackling of the fire inside. The howling, idiot winds around Skyhold were bad enough—the wind here sounded like it had a purpose. 

“I think I’m ready to start telling you a story,” Dorian announced. “Sans breakfast itineraries. It’s not the full story of what went on, but it fills in some blanks.”

I set my book down. “Good. This silence was getting on my nerves.”

He smiled. “The wards are a good idea regardless. Shall we refresh our drinks?”

We did, then settled back onto the couch. Dorian took a sip of wine and started reading.

_=#=_

  * He’s awake (is it fair to call such a creature he or she? It looks more like a he, so I shall refer to him so), and seems to be aware. His eyes are uncanny—black sclera, huge, deep blue irises, black pupils slit like a cat’s. I wonder if the stories of him falling from the stars are true, and if so, are those eyes designed to see in those unimaginable spaces?  
  
They’ve allowed me to keep him in the small room in the basement, but Mother Gentil was reluctant even to do that. He’s weak as a child; I don’t know what they think he’s going to do to us. I don’t even know what he eats. Or if he eats. He’s got very long fingers.


  * I tried a simple broth last night. He made a face, but ate it. I’m sure it’s not what he’s used to, but at least I won’t be guilty of starving him to death. This is going to sound strange, but when I put the lights out he seemed to be glowing slightly.  
  
I was hoping he would understand the words of the Chant, but there was no sign of comprehension. Perhaps he was the Maker’s avatar before Andraste? Would that be considered blasphemy? Probably (haha). If he was last above ground that long ago, it could explain why. Languages change and fade, after all. I’ll try to start teaching him Trade tomorrow. 


  * Mani and Evra are the only ones who understand the importance of what I’m doing. Mother Gentil and most of the sisters from here on the Reach want me to take him back to the grove and send him back to sleep (how???). Then there’s Dalfina and her horrible followers. They claim to know the will of Andraste, but all this is really about is Dalfina hating me because I’m better educated and more importantly, not at all impressed with her. How I’d love to see her standing on Mariner’s Point one day, just in time for a big wave to wash her out to sea. Along with all her tusket-brained ‘friends’.  
  
But back on topic—Ev brought a book that might help. It sounds funny, “A Child’s Guide to Thedas”, but he may as well be a child and it has drawings in it.


  * I’ve given him a name: Aubrey. I had a friend named that when I was little. He was an elf, so we weren’t supposed to be friends, but we were secret friends. We’d meet in the woods behind my house and play explorers and trade things. We moved away when I was seven but I always remember him fondly.  
  
Anyways, he didn’t seem to mind. He’s already learned a few words. There’s a word for his accent. Lilting, I think? Kind of musical. I have to lock him in at night when I go back to quarters because of Dalfina and her barking dogs. You know, even if he isn’t from Andraste, there’s no reason he couldn’t be taught some of the Chant. Just enough to speak for her. He’s exotic enough, people might stop to listen. 


  * When I opened the door today he was looking through the book. I suppose he’s bored, but I don’t dare let him out on his own. Words today: nature words. Slip a little story or two about Andraste in there. Should’ve looked something up in the Chant, but I don’t think he’s ready for that. Mother Gentil reminded me of my duties today, which means she doesn’t think working with Aubrey is one of them. Mani gave me a slice of spiced sugar bread for him. He sniffed it and looked at me like I was trying to get him to eat kaffas, so I ate it instead.  
  
People will think I’m daft, but he looks so lost and alone when I leave every night, I brought him a friend. Okay, it’s a stuffed fennec, but it’s about the softest, realest looking one I’ve ever seen. And Aubrey really seemed to like it. He kept it with him the whole time. I think he likes the feel of it too; it’s hard not to stroke it when you’re holding it. I’m used to his eyes now, but when Sister Luka (also known as barking dog number two) stuck her head in and he looked at her, she screamed and called him a monster. Stupid cow.


  * He knows a few entire verses of the Chant now. I say who’s to say he isn’t the Maker’s avatar. Dress him in some proper attire, maybe inject some forward thinking into the Chantry. The Chantry could use a forward-thinking Divine, don’t you think? Haha. Or maybe it’s not ridiculous?  
  
I asked him where he’s from. He said far away, a dead time and place and looked very sad. He didn’t want to say anything else so I didn’t press him. Could he really be from the stars? The stories were right about him being asleep under the ground, so… 


  * Dalfina said I’m a blasphemer and should suffer a thousand years of torment for bringing a soulless monster into the chantry. I told her last I knew, it was her family that brought her here.  
  
Aubrey won’t answer personal questions about anything. Says he doesn’t remember and hugs his fennec. He opened the book and pointed to a picture of a garden, asked if such things were still in the world. Venhedis. I feel awful having to keep him cooped up like this.


  * Mother Gentil talked to him today. She still thinks he should be returned to his grove, but she admitted he’s done nothing wrong since he’s been here. She liked the verses of the Chant. While she was in a good mood, I asked a favour and she said yes. Tomorrow I’ll take him outside to the little clearing with the north view. Maybe that will improve his spirits. Even though he has no palate to speak of, I could make a picnic out of it. If I put his fennec safely in its bag, maybe I can convince him to leave it in his room—I’m sure if Dalfina and her dogs saw it, they’d be cruel.  
  
This is a lot more work than I thought it would be, but Andraste’s tits, it’s the most fun I’ve had since they sent me to this place. 



_=#=_

“And that’s where it ends.” Dorian closed the little journal. “Of course, we’ve been told what happened next.”

“Yeah. Damn.” I could picture that all too clearly. “Is there any place in this world that doesn’t have a sordid past?”

“Truth?” Dorian gave me a humourless smile. “Probably not. I suppose there might be a remote mountaintop somewhere.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Like Skyhold?”

He laughed. “Or perhaps I’m just cynical because I was raised in Tevinter. I love my country, but sordid is one of its many middle names.”

“It has many middle names now?”

“If it works for Cassandra…” He levitated a log from the firewood rack into the fireplace, set it down in a small shower of sparks.

I thought of the thing out in the stables. “We’re not done with this story.”

He poured himself a little more wine. “I think not. Honestly, could you just let it go at this point?”

“No. But I don’t know what to do with it. All the players are long dead.”

“Are they? I wonder.”

The wind gusted and more not-leaves swarmed shadows at the window. Without saying anything out loud, we changed the subject, spending the rest of the night playing card games and talking about anything but abandoned chantries and things not of this world. 

I awakened in the middle of the night to find Dorian sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes.

“Bad dream?” I asked.

“Yes. _Venhedis._ I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’okay. Do you remember it?” I sat up too, rubbed his back one-handed.

“Not really. It was just voices, clamouring at me but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. There was an overwhelming feeling of despair about it all.”

“I’m sure everything we heard today contributed. Are you all right?”

He cast a weak light, nodded. “It’s fading now. Speaking of which, now that I think of it, that was the bizarre thing about it. I didn’t sense the Fade. At all. Kai, I don’t think the dream came from there.”

“But all dreams come from the Fade, or at least that’s what everyone’s said since forever.”

“I know. What does that say about reality as we know it?”

I rested my arm across his shoulders. “That we should probably talk about it tomorrow. I’m not awake enough to devote proper thought to it, and now I feel like I have to use the bloody facilities.”

“Oh dear. I _am_ sorry.” He leaned over to give me a kiss. “Be brave. Perhaps tomorrow we should invest in chamber pots.”

As I pulled on enough clothing to withstand outdoors, he added, “And thank you. Even though I don’t remember much, it was a dreadful dream.”


	5. Chapter 5

We kicked through the leaves that had covered the path to town last night. There was only a light breeze playing through the branches and the afternoon sun was warm enough even Dorian expressed approval.

“We could have rented horses,” he said.

I snorted. “Right. Then we’d either have to tend to them or hire someone to. I’d rather walk. Walking is good for you. It’s not like anything’s very far here.”

“You just hate tending them.”

“Something I’ve never made a secret of. Why are you suddenly keen on the idea?”

He made a noncommittal noise. 

I gave him a sharp look. “Is something else going on?”

“I…don’t know.” He gave a gusty sigh. “I still feel watched and…it’s difficult to explain. It’s like there’s an invisible storm going on around me, on the other side of its own veil. I can’t see or feel it, but the energy is leaking through and it’s just moments away from making my hair stand on end.”

“Your hair? It wouldn’t dare.”

That got him to smile. “I know. That tells you how unsettling it is. I tried to get a read from my spirits but all they are is agitated and _that_ isn’t helping my nerves either.” His expression slid back to troubled. “You don’t feel anything like that, do you?”

I took a moment to assess how I did feel. “I can feel there’s an odd energy to this place, and it seems to be getting more intense. Nothing specific, though.”

“Do me a favour. Look at me magically and tell me what you see.”

We stopped in the middle of the path and I did as he asked. “Oh…fuck. No wonder you feel off.” When I slipped my vision into the magical spectrum, there was a vortex of energy swirling around him. He’d been accurate in his assessment—it didn’t seem to be fade energy, though I couldn’t say what it was. Those semi-sentient scraps of shadow were more visible, too, and they appeared to be gathering around him. Even watching magically, they flitted in and out of visibility, but there were definitely more of them than there had been the day before. I described it to Dorian.

“Well, it’s nice to have confirmation,” he said wryly. “You’re sure you don’t see any fade energy either?”

“No, but…wait.” Something dawned on me that I probably should have thought of before. I held up my left hand, directed the attention of the Anchor toward Dorian. At first there was nothing, then I felt a stab of pain and an odd tingling. Dorian’s eyes widened.

“Amatus, look at the mark.”

I turned my hand palm up and felt a moment of real shock. It had reacted to the energy around Dorian, but not in a way I’d even thought possible. The incessant green luminance of the Anchor had dulled and darkened, shrinking and pulling in on itself as if flinching away. “It doesn’t like it,” I said, unconsciously dropping my voice to a near-whisper as if saying it too loudly would anger my parasite.

“It certainly doesn’t.” Dorian looked nearly as impressed as I was. “I wonder what Solas would have to say about that.”

“Probably dismiss it as an anomaly or have some ancient elven reason why it’s still a part of the Fade even when it isn’t.” I dismissed the missing elf from my mind, looked again at my hand and felt an irrational bloom of hope. “Dorian, if I could find a more concentrated source of whatever this energy is—call it Aubrey for the moment—maybe I could kill this thing.”

Dorian frowned. “I understand the appeal, but we don’t know how deeply intertwined it is with you now. What if killing it damages you too?”

“I’d like to at least try.” I started walking again, Dorian keeping pace.

“Of course you would. I’d like to come to a better understanding of what’s happening before we go dashing about looking for puddles of Aubrey for you to stick your hand in.”

I snort-laughed. “You’re right. Sorry. I just got excited for a moment. If you had any idea how much I actually hate this thing.”

“If we can safely kill it, we will. But first we may as well ask a few more questions and buy chamber pots.”

_=#=_

We got sandwiches and drinks to go at the pub, took them down to the beach for an impromptu picnic. Neither of us was interested in swimming in the ocean—it wasn’t _that_ warm out—but it was relaxing to watch the water, and Dorian reported the alien energy plaguing him was much weaker there.

Back in the village, we didn’t have much luck finding people to question, and of the few we did, most knew less than we did about the history of the area. There was a consensus that things got strange around Northreach when the ghost moon rode alone in the sky, but none could say why that was. “You just don’t go out walking alone and keep your pets indoors at night,” was the common refrain. At least we found a couple of cheap but serviceable chamber pots; the shopkeeper expressed surprise that none had been provided. We agreed the oversight was unconscionably rude and the price should be knocked off the price of the rental. We were both in a more cheerful frame of mind when we arrived home. 

“We should unbox the painting,” I said. “He said there’s papers with it.” 

“Probably not more old Tevene, but there could be an informational gem,” Dorian agreed. 

Looking at it in the afternoon light, whoever had painted it had done an exquisite job. The flowers had depth and realism, almost seeming to glow. We studied the shadowy figure in the background and concluded they’d also done a brilliant job of making something appear three-dimensional but amorphous. I stood the painting on the sideboard where we could see it easily. 

Dorian opened the envelope containing the papers, putting the first one aside after a quick glance. “Receipt,” he explained. “I’m not sure if it’s even for the painting. Now _this_ is more interesting.” He scanned a yellowed rectangle about the size of his hand. “Listen:  
_After our picnic I dreamed of these glowing under a starry night sky, but soon a feeling of dread came over me and I saw shadows detach themselves from their anchors, moving freely and with dire purpose and for a moment the grove, the flowers, the moon itself was awash with blood. I don't know what to make of it, my dearest, but the dread has followed into my waking hours. Perhaps I_  
And that’s where it ends.”

He handed it to me to read for myself. It was written in a firm, looping hand, the ink only slightly faded. There was nothing to indicate who the writer was or when they had written it. 

I put the slip of paper back in its envelope along with the receipt. “Well that’s not at all creepy.”

He gave a short bark of a laugh. “It’s not like there’s something odd involving shadows going on now, after all. I think I should have another look at Sister Elizabez’s journal just in case.”

While Dorian sat at the dining table giving Elizabez’s journal another read-through, I removed the stuffed fennec from its bag. Close study revealed it was hopelessly cute. Additional investigation in the magical spectrum confirmed its cuteness and the presence of an old cantrip to increase its durability and resistance to dirt and oils. Holding it in both hands, I buried my face in its soft fur and inhaled deeply. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke with an underlying sweet fragrance that was more ghost than true scent. I looked up to find Dorian smiling widely.

“I’m studying it,” I explained.

He pretended innocence. “Of course you are, amatus. I must say, you and the fennec would make a charming portrait.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t let go of the toy. Its fur _was_ eminently soft and pleasant to the touch. “Have you found anything else?”

Dorian sighed. “No. No secret scribbles in code or invisible ink. Just a short, sad story.”

“And a freakishly well-preserved body part in the stable,” I said. “Maybe it’s time to have a closer look at it.”

“Perhaps it is.” He stood and wavered slightly, putting a hand on the table to brace himself.

“Dorian?” 

He gave his head an abrupt shake. “I’m fine. Just one of those moments when you stand too quickly. The energy’s thicker around here. I have the feeling of being supernaturally nagged again. Let’s go have a look at our prize.” He paused at the door and smiled at me. “You feel the fennec will be a useful consultant?”

“Oh. I suppose not.” I set it on the couch and joined him.

The stable was dim and cooler by several degrees than the warm autumn day. The leg was sitting where we’d set it, unchanged. We took it outside where the light was better. It felt almost like flesh, but not quite.

“Though that could be a result of being buried for a few hundred years,” I said.

“It should be nothing but bone,” Dorian said. “Instead it looks like an anatomical study of a lower leg encased in dark grey gelatine.”

“You’ve done anatomical studies?”

“I’m a necromancer. Anatomy comes with the territory, given some of the things one works with aren’t entirely intact.”

“That’s one of the things I appreciate about you. Beneath that pretty exterior you have _layers._ Um. In a more figurative sense, I mean. Anatomically I’d rather stick with the exterior.”

“That’s reassuring. Trust me, some of the people who want to get into necromancy have other ideas. There are those for whom skullfucking is an erotic goal.”

I chuckled. “I’m sure. Wouldn’t most of them gravitate to Nevarra?”

“Not necessarily. Nevarra takes its necromancy seriously. Given it’s an uncommon specialty in Tevinter, finding serious teachers is more of a challenge than finding Nevarran dropouts who are well aware they can make a comfortable living teaching those with the magical aptitude and a death kink just enough so they can animate their own corpses, and charging those without the talent to provide them with their fantasy lovers.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Okay, aside from the _many_ questions I have concerning legality and hygiene, where does one keep an undead sex partner when one isn’t using it? Wouldn’t neighbours complain about the smell? And what about when bits start falling off?”

Dorian gave a snort of amusement. “The animation spell they use only works for an hour or two. You can tailor them so they only work once per corpse. That way the vendor keeps them coming back. Of course, it’s up to the client to dispose of the…partner.”

“Yeah…” I shook my head. “We’re going to revisit that topic, but I think that’s enough to contemplate for the moment.”

“Probably for the best.” He ran his fingers along the leg, eyes distant and thoughtful.

“What do your spirits think of it?”

“Nothing. They don’t consider it dead.”

“Somehow I don’t find that reassuring.”

He walked a short distance away, still with that distracted expression. I didn’t follow, giving him some space. There was a heaviness to the air that made me wonder if it was going to rain though the only clouds visible were high and wispy.

The temperature dropped as if someone had slammed a freezing spell on the entire clearing. The scars on my left side sent a stab of pain in complaint and I clapped my right hand over them reflexively. A loud rustling came from all sides, fallen leaves heaving and shifting as low, misshapen black shadows raced through them, all of them swarming to engulf one target—Dorian.

He half-turned toward me before he was completely covered in shifting, scurrying shadows. He dropped to his knees, shuddering, doubling over.

My left side sent another pulse of pain. I gasped, could see my breath when I exhaled.

Dorian was an indistinct mass of writhing shadow…and then he screamed. It was a howl of pure despair that sent me racing to him only to stop before him in indecision. I wanted to blast the shadows off him, but had no idea what would accomplish that without harming him. How do you fight shadows?

As I hesitated, he screamed again and slowly, deliberately straightened back up, raised his arms, hands fisted, and cast a coruscating light that washed over him from head to foot. The shadows didn’t disappear like normal shadows, but slid down and away from him. He gave one last shout that sounded like the sort you give when you discover a large insect on yourself and shook himself like a wet dog.

I knelt in front of him, put a hand on each shoulder. “Dorian? Are you all right? What happened?”

He took a deep, shuddery breath and gave me a slightly manic smile. “I would not go so far as to say I’m _all right,_ but thank you for not casting anything at them. I’ll tell you everything, but can we go inside? I could very much use a bottle of something highly alcoholic.”

I helped him up and we returned to the house. The bitter cold had gone away with the shadows, but my left side was still cross about it. I did my best to ignore it—Dorian was more important.

I poured him a drink and got myself a beer. He downed his drink in two gulps so I poured him another which he set on the coffee table with precision. He raked his fingers through his hair then made only a cursory attempt to smooth it back into shape, muttered _venhedis,_ gave me a wan smile. Took a more decorous sip of his second drink.

I raised my eyebrows, took a swallow of beer, willing it to start covering up the low-level pain still nagging at my left side. “Ready to tell me what happened?”

Tired, gusty exhale. “I was mobbed.”

“I saw that. I’ll have you know it scared the fuck out of me.”

Another wan smile. “It didn’t do much for my nerves either.” He lapsed into silence.

I waited, but after a few minutes dragged by I said, “You think you could tell me what happened? What are they? What did they do to you?”

“I’m sorry, amatus. I’m just sorting it out for myself. They’re…Maker’s halitosis…I suppose they’re shades of a sort, but that’s not right. The story is true. Some of the details have been remembered wrong, or even lost, but it’s quite true. Whatever Aubrey is, Elizabez woke him and tried to communicate with and teach him, and a group of chantry sisters and brothers took him, betrayed him and hacked him to pieces. I don’t know what Aubrey really is, but the shadows… _are_ him in a manner of speaking.”

“Clear as swamp water, love.” The beer and just sitting still in a warm room were starting to work; the nagging pain in my side was subsiding.

“Ugh.” He took a drink, knuckled his eyes. “It was a lot to take in in a short time. The shadows are Aubrey’s shattered essence. He’s not dead, but he’s not precisely alive. You might say the shadows are the ragged pieces of his soul, ripped apart when they cut his body to pieces. Each piece is tied to the piece of body and they are _aware._ ”

“Aware how? Were they talking to you or was it more fundamental than that?”

“I’m not even sure how to articulate it. The _despair_ they’ve felt…it was overwhelming. But so is their hope. You see, in all that time I’m the first necromancer to set foot on the island. They’re quite sure I can bring together that which was torn asunder.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Very poetic, these shades of body parts. So are you saying what I think you’re saying? We’re to dig up all the bits so you can put him together again?”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“And you want to.”

“If you’d felt that—”

“I watched you screaming. Of course I’ll help if that’s what you want. But how do you imagine you’ll be able to put him back together?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps if we get all of him back to the grove where his head is buried something will occur to me.”

I looked at the palm of my left hand, the parasite bisecting it not even close to its usual resting green glow. “Maybe if he’s back together…” I didn’t need to finish. Dorian knew what I was thinking. 

“All the more reason to try, wouldn’t you say?”

“Mm hm.” I clenched my left fist, removing the damned mark from my sight, and grinned at Dorian. “So this time it’s _your_ fault we’re not having a normal, uneventful holiday.”

He blinked, grinned back. “I suppose it is. I’ve been around you too long. Your propensity for falling into ridiculous adventures must be rubbing off on me.”

“And still you make it my fault.” I gave him a dramatic pout.

“It is the sort of thing that normally happens to you.”

I had to concede that point. “When are we expected to start this scavenger hunt?”

“As soon as possible. Apparently it has to happen during the ghost moon; I don’t pretend to understand precisely why. Something to do with energy.”

“Now that they know you’ll help, will they give us one night without being pestered?”

“I imagine so.”

He imagined correctly. We stopped at the general store on the way to dinner and purchased two spades. The shopkeeper quipped, “You’re not here long enough to plant a garden, so are you going treasure hunting or digging a grave?”

We laughed along with her, but on the way out Dorian muttered, “More like both.”


	6. Chapter 6

The next day was bright and sunny for our rather ghoulish treasure hunt. What I hadn’t expected was our escort. We emerged from the house shortly before noon to find the clearing filled with shadows flitting and circling impatiently. The moment Dorian made it all the way out the door they swarmed around him like a pack of ghostly puppies. I was worried they’d engulf him like the day before, but they contented themselves with flocking around his feet, occasionally making little hops up to his knees.

“You’ve finally got an adoring public mobbing you,” I said.

“They’re not as comely as I imagined, but I suppose they make up for it with enthusiasm.” He stood still, adopting a listening look for several moments. “Yes, all right, we’ll do that. Now do stop crawling on my feet, would you?”

The shadows obediently backed off a short way. “If I’m interpreting them correctly, we’re to follow them. Each one is tied to its own body part, and they all want to be found.”

“I suppose we should bring a sack, or maybe a wheelbarrow?”

“The latter smacks far too much of manual labour. Bring a sack and levitate it once it starts getting heavy. That is, unless you _want_ to transport them the brutish way.”

I snorted. “I did manual labour once for nearly a month. I hated it and vowed never to volunteer for such a thing again.”

“At least you learn from your mistakes.”

“I don’t suppose your new shadowy friends know how deep we have to dig.”

“They’re not that adept at communicating. I’ll help with the digging. I even have gloves!” He pulled out a pair and flapped them at me. They were strong leather and well-made, mostly black with piping and a crosshatch pattern woven on the backs in oxblood (the colour, not some blood magic thing) and probably cost nearly as much as my leather coat.

“Nice. Too nice, in fact. I’d feel terrible getting dirt on something like those.” I had a pair of fingerless black leather gloves with padded palms I preferred.

“They’re guaranteed. A simple clean-up spell and they should be good as new no matter what one soils them with.”

The shadows sped up their movements and one dared to swim up Dorian’s knee. “I don’t think they appreciate our cheerful banter,” I said.

“I don’t think they’re big on banter. Yes, yes, we’re ready. Lead on,” he addressed the shadows. Most of them raced off to the north, except for a few that hovered just ahead of us, no doubt to ensure we were following. 

We set off through the trees, rustling through the carpet of fallen leaves. Birds conversed loudly around us, and somewhere a squirrel was busy scolding something. As woods go, they were quite pleasant with very little in the way of underbrush or deadfall to impede our progress. Somewhere in the distance I could hear running water, but it was too far away to know what kind or how much. 

“You know, this is kind of nice, not being the indispensible one for once,” I said. 

“That’s not the sort of thing a born leader is supposed to say.” Dorian affected shock.

“I _can_ lead. Doesn’t mean I want to. If I couldn’t lead I suppose they’d just drag me about making me close rifts. It’s the stupid Anchor that’s indispensible, not me.”

Dorian chuckled. “They would, too. They’d give you a fancy title like Lord of the Rifts and put someone like Cullen in charge.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Cullen? Why him?”

“Cassandra is off being Divine now, but even before she preferred to stay out of the limelight just as much as Leliana. Josie is too efficient to waste in the position. Whereas Cullen has command experience, and he’s pretty in a sort of conventional, soldierly way that many people like.”

“Well, now that it’s all bureaucratic nonsense for the most part, maybe I’ll let Cullen handle everything but the occasional rift closing from now on.”

“No you won’t. You know his solution to everything is to send soldiers and Templars.”

“I kept hoping he’d outgrow that. He still wants that dog squad, you know.”

Dorian laughed. “Why don’t you give it to him?”

“We don’t need one. Who the fuck are we fighting these days? Ferelden sends us snotty missives asking when the last of our people are going to leave, Orlais sends us _condescending_ snotty missives suggesting we’d do much better under their umbrella, and the other countries send diplomats who are hoping to ensure we don’t start messing about in their lands. Who’s Cullen going to sic his dogs on in that lot?”

“All of them?” 

Our conversation was cut short as one of the shadows started zipping from Dorian to a nondescript spot at the base of a tree and back again. “It occurs to me this might not be as easy as we anticipated,” he said with a grimace. “The terrain has doubtlessly changed in the last two hundred years.”

“Shite. Well, we promised, so let’s get digging.”

And that’s how the entire afternoon went. We trudged around much of the northern half of the Reach, stopping to dig whenever one of the shadow creatures got excited and pinpointed its body part. Some places hadn’t changed much over the years, or just had extra grass and earth to cut through. Others were more problematical, sometimes because a shift in the ground had pushed it deeper over time, or trees had grown over top of it. For one of those we had to pull the tree out by the roots using kinetic spells. Two were under water—fortunately it wasn’t deep and they hadn’t thought to throw anything in the ocean—and three of them had had structures built over them that had later been abandoned. I have to admit I enjoyed blowing through their floors to get to the ground beneath. There’s something cathartic about a touch of wanton destruction now and then.

By the time we’d gotten the last body part we were both tired, sweaty and filled with justifiable hatred for those chantry bastards who’d not been content with simple burial, but had to go overboard both with their murder and what they did to the body. Every muscle from my hands to my back was achy and complaining and healing spells didn’t do much for that sort of thing. We trudged back to the house, the bag filled with our grisly treasure floating sedately ahead of us courtesy of levitation spells. It went into the stable with our original prize.

I threw myself on the couch and groaned. “I feel impossibly grubby but I don’t feel like having a shower. You think a clean-up spell is enough?”

Dorian dropped into the armchair across from me. “I think so. Remember, we still need to get it all to the original grove.”

“Tonight? Please tell me we don’t have to tonight.” I knew I sounded whiny, didn’t care.

“I’m sure the shadows would be happier if we did, but the requirement is that the ghost moon be the only one in the sky. It will be tomorrow night.” He gave me a half smile. “I checked.”

“You are brilliant and I love you,” I stated. “Is there anything to eat here?”

“Alas, I think all we have are those two pastries with the powdered sugar all over them.”

“Damn. That means more walking.”

“At least we don’t have to dig up supper.”

We were so tired we hadn’t even registered the heightened strangeness everyone swore came to the Reach with the ghost moon despite walking home in the dark after dinner. Along with fatigue, I attribute part of the reason to the amount of weirdness we’d already encountered in the course of the Inquisition and as mages in general. After all, our current situation was due to Dorian’s being a necromancer. When your lover chats with death spirits on a regular basis, the bar for what’s frightening gets raised fairly high.


	7. Chapter 7

I was drinking coffee and studying the ghost flowers painting by the time Dorian finished his ablutions the next morning. He fetched his tea from the kitchen and joined me at the dining table. 

“Discover anything amazing or scandalous?” he asked.

“Well, I actually like the painting. We should take down one of those Inquisition-themed things and put this up in our quarters when we get back to Skyhold.”

“One would think you’ve grown weary of the Inquisition.” He gave me incredulous round eyes over his teacup.

“That’s one word for it. Do you remember seeing any of these ghost flowers around?”

“Don’t they only bloom in the night? I don’t think we’ve been anywhere off the trail between here in the village once it was full dark.”

“Are they anywhere else? And if they are, are they the same as here? I’m just wondering if Aubrey’s energy may have affected them.” I hadn’t said anything to Dorian, but after the Anchor’s reaction to that energy I’d been paying close attention to the damned thing. Its color seemed duller, more subdued. It wasn’t consistent, but there were times it just looked like I had an odd scar on my palm rimmed with a green tincture. I knew I was getting my hopes up, but if it disliked Aubrey in his current state… Hard on that thought was my backup idea if it wasn’t that easy to get rid of: If an actual tincture could be made from the ghost flowers that retained Aubrey’s energy, perhaps I could at least keep it supressed when I wasn’t required to use it to close rifts. They were almost all gone now, so the Anchor was really nothing but a useless parasite.

“I would think it has. His energy has permeated this island for Maker only knows how long. I assume that’s why everything feels ever so slightly ‘off’ here. It’s quite fascinating—Brandel’s Reach really _is_ unlike anywhere else on Thedas that we know of.” 

“I haven’t noticed any reduction in my power, which suggests it may not be as tied to the Fade as everyone assumes.”

Now he looked interested for real. “Now that you mention it, neither have I. It could be that magical energy is more ubiquitous than we thought, and if one has the talent to manipulate it, the particular flavour is inconsequential.”

“Nice thought. I’m not a big fan of the Fade.”

He smirked. “Good thing Solas isn’t around to hear that.”

“I’m sure the two of them are quite happy together.”

We decided to walk to the village, grab lunch to go, then search for the grove where Aubrey’s head was buried. We couldn’t do anything to restore him until the ghost moon was visible, but just knowing where we needed to be would save time.

“Will it work if it’s overcast?” I eyed the grey skies overhead. As usual, there was a chill to the air as the wind was blowing straight off the water.

“I believe so. It’s one of those atmospheric things as much as a magical necessity. As long as it’s night and the ghost moon is ascendant the conditions of the magic are met.” Dorian took a deep breath, glanced around us as we walked. “Is it just me, or does everything feel _fraught?_ ”

“Aptly put, and it’s not just you. It’s like everything’s charged with static electricity. Touch the wrong thing and you’ll get knocked on your arse.” I snuck a look at my left hand; the Anchor was dull and dark. I hoped it was having a terrible day. “You think Aubrey’s energy is interacting with the Veil or just…shoving it out of the area?”

“I really couldn’t say. We don’t even know what Aubrey _is,_ much less what exactly is going on here. We have some stories, an old journal and a bag of very odd body parts which—despite all logic—I am going to attempt to reincorporate into a single entity tonight, in part because his shadowy soul fragments are pestering me and may be dangerous if I don’t go along with their request. I daresay we’ve got enough going on without Veil theory added to the mix.”

I made a noise of agreement. “It’s just got me thinking is all. About worlds without a Veil or a Fade. Does everyone have magic like the tales here? Does no one? Do their people dream or does the lack of a veil mean they’d be in a perpetual dream state they’d consider normal?”

He chuckled. “You and your thousands of questions.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s one of your qualities I find glorious. You make _me_ question things too. I appreciate that. I don’t want to become so comfortable and invested in the way things are that I become close-minded and hidebound like—” He stopped abruptly, but I knew the unspoken words were _my father._

I said, “Yeah,” and changed the subject. “So is there a spell for reincorporating hacked up bodies?”

_=#=_

While we were in town we overheard several people mention staying in for the night because the ghost moon was out, always in that semi-joking way that suggested they didn’t really believe the superstition but hadn’t planned on going out anyway…just as they did every ghost moon night. We got sandwiches and bottled drinks; my joking suggestion that we might need a heavy-duty sewing kit earned me a dark look from Dorian.

“I must say, I had no intention of doing this much traipsing about in the woods,” he said as we headed in search of Aubrey’s grove. “I distinctly heard beaches mentioned, yet we’ve only been to one once.”

“If we can fix this situation with Aubrey, we’ll still have a week to sit on the beach.”

“You do know by saying that you’ll likely ensure it rains the entire time. Or worse, we’ll get a freak autumn snow storm.”

I smirked. “I’m supposed to be the doomsayer here.”

“Your southern weather is out to get me. That’s just a cold fact.”

“I’ll assume that was deliberate. Shouldn’t Aubrey’s soul shadows be showing us where his bloody head is?”

“Both alliterative and poetic. I’m impressed.” Dorian shot me a grin. “I thought the same thing. Who knew my entourage would be so fickle?”

We walked in silence for some minutes, searching for something appropriately grove-like or a helpful soul shadow. “I don’t wonder the locals opt to stay inside. It’s like this whole side of the Reach is holding its breath,” I said.

“I still have the overwhelming feeling of being watched. And something else—despite Aubrey’s remnants giddily welcoming me, I feel like there’s something else here that _dis_ likes me just as much.”

“Have you felt that the whole time?” I said a little more sharply than intended.

“No, I’m not sure when I first became aware of it. It’s been growing stronger as this day’s progressed.”

“You’re supposed to tell me things like that,” I scolded.

“I just did.”

“Andraste’s furry ass,” I muttered. I was intending to say something else, but it got driven from my mind as we stepped through the trees into a clearing. It was like walking into a wall of wet static electricity, if that makes any sense. The hair on my arms stood up, and Dorian’s careful coif was frizzing at the edges.

Dorian cursed beside me, added, “This has to be it.”

I felt a stab of almost-pain from my left hand. The Anchor had shrunk to its smallest size, appearing to pull in on itself trying to get away from the alien energy. I took a savage glee in its discomfort. I said, “It’s got to. Look at all the ghost flowers.”

They wouldn’t open until night—even their leaves were furled—but I recognized them from the painting. They were growing around the perimeter and in scattered clumps all through the grove. 

“I’m sure it will be very pretty tonight,” Dorian said. “I just want to take a little walk around, get a feel for what I’ll be dealing with. I’m probably going to have to fashion this spell on the fly—no one covered reincorporating alien bodies in my classes, not even the one-on-ones with my mentors.”

“I feel like I should be helping.”

Dorian smiled. “Well, you’re the one who decided conjuring a sword was more exciting.”

“I thought if anyone was going to teach me necromancy at some point it should be you or someone you recommend, not some random Nevarran. And while we were in the thick of Inquisition business it made more sense for me to learn something different since you had necromancy covered.”

“And you were right on both counts. Besides, depending on what this entails, I may still need your help.”

“Have your look around. I’ll wait here.”

He took my right hand, gave it a squeeze and walked away, moving slowly as he assessed the area. I leaned against a tree and examined the Anchor again. It was still having itself a little sulk, which was nice but I wanted it to pack its bags and run home to Mother. Yes, when Corypheus tried to pull the damned thing out of me he had to give up, but his energy was wholly of the Fade, same as the Anchor. I told myself to stop hoping so deeply, but it wasn’t easy.

I was so very tired of having to look at the evil thing, and think about it, and feel its presence. It couldn’t even have the decency to infest my non-dominant hand.

Halfway across the grove, Dorian made a noise like he’d been goosed, pulling me out of my reverie. “What happened?” I called.

“I think I found where the head is buried. It felt like a bolt of fuzzy lightning passed through me.”

“Fuzzy lightning?” I echoed.

“It’s difficult to describe. It felt electric, but as if the electricity was being passed through a down pillow. I’m going to mark it so we can find it easily tonight.”

Examination done, we headed back home. Crossing through the perimeter of the grove was almost as disconcerting as entering had been, not the least because I felt something more as we passed. It was as if something old and malevolent had been awakened, and was now looking for who had disturbed it. I wanted to discount it but…”Did you feel that?” I asked.

“You mean the sensation that something ghastly was alerted when we trespassed? Certainly not.”

_=#=_

We spent the rest of the afternoon in utterly mundane activities. We ate, played a few card games, talked about inconsequential things. When dusk drew near, we prepared. We weren’t sure what we were preparing _for,_ but the last few years had taught us it was better to assume things might go very wrong without warning. So I put on my leather coat. That may not sound impressive, but I’d hardened it with so many armouring and protective spells over the years that it was better than plate armour. Not only could it deflect a lethal amount of force, it was flexible, formed to me, and looked fabulous.

Dorian—for whom looking fabulous is second nature—dressed down, wearing practical leathers with only a fraction of his favourite metal embellishments, and took his fire staff (suitable for those times when there wasn’t an effective necromantic spell). Instead of robes, he added a stylishly embroidered—and warm—coat to his ensemble.

I’d been experimenting lately with other things to use as a focus (since that’s mostly what a staff does) that might work as well without being so large and unwieldy. My current project looked like a thick-handled ice axe imbued with the same runes as a staff. I’d been intending to work on it when there was nothing to do, but there’d been no time. I figured if it turned out to need work as a focus, I could always hit enemies with it. On a whim, I added the bag containing the stuffed fennec to my rucksack as we walked out the door.

Finally we fetched the bag of body parts from the shed and made our way to Aubrey’s grove. 

If we thought the atmosphere in the afternoon was unsettlingly heavy with alien energy and an undercurrent of ill intent, the late evening was positively surreal. The little ghost moon was making its way high into the sky, casting eerie light over the land that seemed to accentuate all the shadows and dark places. The air smelled of ozone and dead leaves, and winds heavy with autumn chill were blowing with unpredictable gusts.

It was Dorian who first noticed the soul-shadows had returned, flitting around us and the bag of body parts, rustling through the dead leaves, painting unsettling, shifting patterns on trees and ground. Not far away, a sudden, louder burst of rustling came from a collection of low bushes and moments later the sound of something small squeaking in surprise at its own demise.

“Lovely night for a resurrection, don’t you think?” Dorian quipped.

“If we get a freak thunderstorm and a lightning bolt striking dead centre in the grove during it I’m going to complain to the gods of melodrama,” I said.

“ _Are_ there gods of melodrama?”

“There should be.”

“You think? I would think they’d get annoying very quickly. Always causing some sort of ghastly weather event over perceived slights, that sort of thing.”

“Damn. You’re right. No wonder they went with a god who walked away in disgust.”

“Honestly, amatus, you’re supposed to feel bad that the Maker abandoned us.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “You and I have both been on the receiving end of attention from so-called gods and it’s never turned out well. You really want the one who supposedly constructed all this to come back and start complaining about how we messed up his decorative scrollwork on the Storm Coast and what possessed us to think a city would look good just where he’d done that cunning little forest at the bend of his favourite river?”

He stroked the patch of hair under his lower lip. “That is…a very good point. Having experienced what it’s like when _you_ get into a sulk, I can only imagine.”

“Oh, very funny. Am I imagining things or is something glowing ahead?”

“It’s the grove, and I see it too.”

We approached cautiously; the grove was silent but for the sound of the leaves and branches rustling in the wind. Soul-shadows raced before us, disappearing into the glowing centre. We walked through the border of trees, stopping at the edge to take in the sight. The glow was coming from the ghost flowers, now blooming in the pale moonlight, their white luminescence tinted with cool blue-green undertones. Delicate veins in their unfurled leaves also glowed faintly.

“It’s like moonlight given solid form,” Dorian said in quiet wonder.

“Very poetic, but you’re right. They’re gorgeous,” I said. “I hate the idea of having to go in there and dig.”

“If we’re careful we can move the flowers without killing them. I assume they only have this level of illumination here, or they’d be filling every garden in Tevinter.”

“Aubrey’s influence again. Shall we see if you can arrange us a meeting?”

“If we don’t I think his shades will not react well. How are you at puzzles?”

“You mean we need to put all the bits in their proper places, don’t you.”

“Once that’s done, we dig up the head and place it. Then, theoretically, the magic starts.”

We entered the grove, taking care not to disturb the ghost flowers. The perimeter still felt as if we’d passed into a heavy electrical field, but it no longer had that wet, sluggish cast to it. The air of malevolence was a somnolent undercurrent, though I feared our re-entry would likely wake it up again. Dorian lowered the bag close to where he thought the body should be rebuilt. He put the shovel to one side, said, “I suppose it would be best to just dump them out then start building?”

I opened my mouth to answer when a blast of displaced air ripped through the grove and something inhuman screamed.


	8. Chapter 8

We spun toward the sound and Dorian said, “Venhedis.”

I said, “Fuck,” at the same time.

Remember the demon the tale said those Chantry faithful had called up? The one who killed everyone in the chapel? It was real, and had materialized already in a crouch that suggested _I am going to now leap across half the grove and tear your throats out._ It was tall and broad, humanoid but not human. Its skin (hide?) was the colors of moss and damp earth, arms and legs long and spiky, while its belly was weirdly soft and saggy. Its face—framed by long, snaky tendrils that I suppose could loosely be termed hair—looked human at first, until it turned its head and we saw that the face appeared to have been pulled _forward_ at least a full handspan. In some ways that was its most unsettling feature, until it screamed again and we saw its lower jaw drop halfway down its chest to reveal a gaping maw of yellowing, snaggled teeth. Then it _grinned_ at us and I decided that was more unsettling.

Dorian scowled as he readied his staff. “ _Fasta vass,_ this holiday is turning into _work._ ”

“Bad enough it’s wide awake, but does it have to grin like that?” I complained. “Has it been waiting here all this time for someone to bring Aubrey back? And what is it waiting for?” I pulled my experimental focus from its strap inside my coat.

“I suggest we keep an eye out for backup.”

As if responding to Dorian’s cue, there was another rush of displaced air from behind. We backed away at a ninety-degree angle so our adversaries were to either side of us, then checked to see what else had joined us in the grove. 

I said, “Oh…no.”

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Dorian’s tone held the same sorrow I was feeling.

She’d been human once, a long, long time ago. What had been done to her, I couldn’t imagine; really didn’t want to. She was now mottled, leathery skin over crooked bone, wearing a rag of a dress that left little to the imagination. Her joints were swollen and deformed, her hands claws. Her hair hung in long, dry hanks. Desiccated lips pulled away from teeth that were alarmingly white and even. Her face—her whole body—looked as if every bone had been broken many times over and badly set. Her back appeared to be permanently hunched and twisted, yet she seemed to have no trouble moving. Her eyes, sunk deep in discoloured sockets, were grey-blue, bright and utterly mad.

I said, “Elizabez. They gave her to the demon.”

She looked at us and hissed.

The demon made a weird, chortling sound and made good on its implied threat, crossing half the grove in one prodigious leap. As it descended, it took a swipe at us with its overlong, heavily clawed hands that would have done serious damage had they connected. 

Fortunately, we had years of experience fighting fade demons that used the same tactic, so we’d already cast shields and moved out of the way. I cast a heavy freezing spell on the thing, and as soon as it set Dorian hit it with a pile-driver of a force spell. It didn’t shatter into a million pieces like I’d hoped, but it did scream in pain and shock, scuttling away like a scalded dog. Dorian cast a terror spell on it while it was still off-balance. They don’t normally do much against demons, but a little more terror couldn’t hurt. He followed that up with a bolt of electricity that made its hair writhe. It shuddered and made that awful chortling noise again. 

I cast a stasis spell and hit it with a bolt of plasma as Dorian cast ice from the other side. It twitched, eyes jittering and leaking black liquid, chortled again. Its soft, distended belly _pulsed_ , rippling as shapes writhed and turned under the skin. Another _pulse_ and a long vertical tear opened down its belly. A gout of blood and liquid spilled onto the ground, hissing and steaming. 

Disconcertingly, it grinned again as, in a grotesque parody of birth, crawling things tumbled from the rent in its belly, scuttling toward us the moment they hit the ground. I couldn’t quite make out what they were in the wan moonlight—they were as long as my hand and seemed to be moving on far too many legs—wasn’t sure it would make me feel any better to know. 

I threw up another shield and cast one the standard spells in my anti-demon repertoire. The spell normally opened a rift to the Fade over top of the demons, which knocked them for a loop. My left hand cramped, a bolt of pain shooting up my arm and…nothing happened. For a moment I just stood there, staring dumbly at my hand as my mind tried to wrap itself around the unthinkable fact that I hadn’t been able to cast a spell. The why of it was just dawning on me when something screamed behind me and slammed into my back, sending me staggering forward towards the demonspawn as I tried to keep my balance.

One of the scuttling things cracked beneath my boot as I regained my equilibrium. Dorian was shouting and casting a mix of elemental and kinetic spells at the demon and its spawn, but before I could do anything other than register the fact, a body slammed into me from behind again. Elizabez. She wrapped powerful, bony legs around my waist, one hand digging into my left shoulder while her right arm attempted to snake around my throat. I cast a burst of electricity around myself strong enough to make her relax her grip, slammed my palms onto her legs and cast fire.

She screamed and dropped away. I spun to face her, raising another shield, more demonspawn crackling under my boots. She scrambled to her feet, making guttural noises devoid of any resemblance to speech. I looked away from her long enough to incinerate several demonspawn that were attempting to swarm me; I might have been in trouble were my footwear not knee-high and leather. It was enough time for her to launch herself at me again. 

I expected her to be deflected by my shield spell, but it might as well have not existed. She slammed into me, staggering me again. I attempted to back away, stepped on the bag of Aubrey and fell hard;, my coat absorbed much of the impact, but it still knocked the breath out of me and my right knee twisted the wrong way. She was immediately on me, scratching and punching wherever she could. Again, my coat took the worst of it, but one of her bony knees slammed into my left side, making me gasp in pain. 

She clawed at my neck, trying to get past my coat collar to rend flesh. I shouted, “Elizabez! No!” but she didn’t even blink, just kept flailing at me, a froth of spittle forming at the corners of her mouth. Her knee drove into my side again making me gasp. Her frenetic attack made it difficult to cast anything, so I channeled as much power as I could manage into a kinetic cantrip and punched her in the head.

Bone cracked as she flew off me. I scrambled to my feet, favouring my right knee as I backed toward the perimeter of the grove. For a moment she lay still. I reached into my coat pocket to grab a healing potion, felt a horrible crawling sensation on my right arm and a sharp pain. I yelped and whacked at my coat sleeve with my left hand. More scrabbling, followed by a _crack_ as I managed to smash the thing. My skin burned where liquid hit it, and one of the demonspawn dropped out of my sleeve. I stomped it, cast a clean-up spell on my arm to get the spawn guts off, and fished out the healing potion, downing it in one gulp. 

I took advantage of the momentary respite to glance around the grove. Dorian and the demon were still tangling with one another far to my left, and it looked as if he was holding his own, launching varied spells to keep the thing off balance and keeping it at bay with the bladed end of his staff when it tried to close with him. That was a relief, because I didn’t dare take my eyes off Elizabez again. She was moving, a clump of ghost flowers illuminating her ravaged face. ****

My arm and knee ceased their complaining as the potion worked. It helped with the throbbing ache in my left side too, which meant she’d actually injured me there. I can’t always tell because it’s decided to hurt for no particular reason too often. I cast a shield spell, waited for her to make her move while the potion finished its task.

Elizabez had gathered herself into a crouch, was watching me with snakelike intensity. Her jaw was more crooked than before—I was afraid I’d broken it—but she seemed unfazed by it. It was probably pointless, but I said, “Elizabez, you don’t have to do this. We can help you. We can kill the demon, find you healing. I swear.”

She made another of those guttural noises, snatched one of the remaining demonspawn scuttling past and with slow deliberation, bit it in half, its body fluids running down her chin leaving blistered flesh in their wake. She tossed the still-squirming half in her hand onto the ground, and spit the other half at me, her mad, hate-filled eyes never leaving mine.

I didn’t flinch or look away. “I really don’t want to fight you, Elizabez. I don’t want to hurt you. If you’ll allow it, we’ll do all we can to help you. You’ve suffered enough. You needn’t fight that thing’s battles.”

Though the demon was battling my amatus just a handful of paces away, it felt for that moment as if Elizabez and I were in a place outside time. She was still, those eyes boring into mine. Had she understood me? _Could_ she anymore?

“You can leave, Elizabez. We can help.” 

She blinked slowly, like a cat. Then she laughed. It was a laugh devoid of humour, devoid of hope and, finally, devoid of sense. It was the most horrible thing I’d ever heard.

Once again she launched herself at me, still laughing that awful laugh. I knocked her back with a force spell that should have sent her flying to the other side of the grove, but she was oddly resistant and was only pushed a few body lengths away, landing on her feet and immediately running right at me again. It was a suicidal method of attack…and I realized she had to know that. _Venhedis_.

She was resistant to magic and she would still do her best to kill me so…in those seconds before she reached me I tightened my grip on my glorified ice axe of a focus, cast a little spell that would help my aim and swung it hard. The business end sunk into her temple with what seemed an inappropriately quiet _crack._ Elizabez fell to the ground, left eye bulging in its socket, and tried to kick me. I managed to yank the narrow, blunt blade out of her head. The wound spurted blood and fluid, but she showed no sign of dying. She laughed again, and it was worse than a scream. I chanced a look at her in the magical spectrum, saw the ugly network of enchantments and binding spells that wound around and through her. I wouldn’t be able to kill her magically, and she wouldn’t be able to stop trying to kill me.

I cast a stasis spell on her that might last a minute if I was lucky, called out, “Dorian? Are you all right?”

“Just peachy,” came his breathless reply. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account. Let me guess—she’s resistant to magic.”

“Of course. Yours too?”

“Of course. If you’re able to finish soon, I wouldn’t object— _oh no you don’t!_ —to a bit of help.”

“I’ll do my best. Let me know if it gets to be too much.”

“You’ll do the same, yes?”

“Promise.” I returned my attention to Elizabez, crouched down next to her. Her right arm lashed up and she raked long, wicked nails across my head and face. I tried to ignore the pain, grabbed her arms and forced her over onto her stomach. Lacking any useful spell that would last long enough, I sat on her.

Even though I understood it was useless, I said, “Are you sure about this?”

Her horrible, empty laugh was muffled but strong. “All right. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

She jerked under me, compelled but unable to attack. I raised the business end of the axe, this time aiming with the wide horizontal end of the blade, and brought it down as hard as I could on the back of her neck. The metal slammed down and in, severing her spine with another soft _crack_ that should have been devastatingly loud. She shuddered once and lay still. I got up, leaving the metal embedded in her neck. To ensure her death the head would have to be removed, but I couldn’t stomach the thought right then. 

Instead I strode over to help Dorian destroy the creature that had kept her for so long, since the ones who’d betrayed her were long dead. Weakened from Dorian’s devastating attacks and with nothing to stop the two of us from concentrating on it, the demon’s magical resistance was nowhere near strong enough. I kept it distracted with elemental spells, alternating between fire, ice and lightning long enough for Dorian to down a vial of lyrium and cast one of his best—if messiest—combat spells. I hit it with a force spell that threw it back several paces, and we backed quickly in the opposite direction. It chortled again, perhaps thinking we were trying to run from it, and began to lope forward. Suddenly it stopped, a look of confused distress on its pulled-out face. It snarled, crouched for another one of those prodigious jumps…and exploded. Bits of demon landed in an elongated circle covering most of the north end of the grove. It smelled like burnt licorice and dirty laundry.

We trudged to the south end, found a tree thick enough that we could both use it as a backrest and sat. I fished my water flask out of my travel bag and between us we drained it.


	9. Chapter 9

“At what point did we run afoul of the cosmic law that nothing can ever be easy?” Dorian said. He pointed at my axe-focus still stuck in Elizabez’s neck. “I assume there’s a good reason for that.”

I sighed. “Head needs to come off to avoid reanimation. I just…couldn’t. Sorry I left you to deal with that thing. Was it a fade demon or something else?”

“Fade. You’ll note it’s already dissipating along with that _smell_ , thank the gods. I need to double check, but I think it was a demon of resentment.”

I thought about that. “Sounds right to me. That’s what her betrayers were seething with.”

“That’s why it could do that distasteful little trick of birthing more spawn of itself. Resentment being communicable and all.”

I grunted agreement and pulled my right sleeve up. There was a red mark like an old burn on my forearm. “One of them crawled up my sleeve. I smashed it and drank a healing potion right after. Look at it.”

“Nasty,” Dorian sympathized.

“I couldn’t cast the rift spell tonight.”

“Was that when you got that look of surprise on your face?”

“You noticed that, did you? Yeah. I was gonna open a rift on top of it, but…nothing. I realized what was going on—the energy that’s keeping the Anchor in a sulk is blocking spells it’s responsible for. It was just rather disconcerting. So if I can get rid of the damned thing I’ll lose a few spells from my repertoire. I think it’s worth it.”

He reached over, gave my thigh an affectionate squeeze, left his hand there. “I hope it works. Agh. We still need to bring Aubrey back tonight.”

“I was hoping to have Elizabez there to meet him, but…”

“I imagine she was too damaged?”

“Mm hm. Whatever small vestige of her may have been left knew it before I was willing to admit it. In the end there was only one thing I could do for her. Damn it.”

He gave me a curious look. “You tried to talk to her, didn’t you? Even seeing what she’d become, despite the fact she was trying to kill you.”

“Well, yes. What if we could have helped her? Knowing what had been done to her, how could I not try?”

“You are remarkable,” he said with a smile. “Don’t ever change, amatus.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” I didn’t see what I’d done was remarkable, but if Dorian wanted to think I was… “I really don’t want to finish the job of making sure she stays dead, but it’s necessary.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help. Kai, you’re bleeding. Turn your head toward me.”

I obeyed him, suddenly remembering she’d clawed me. “Those could infect,” he said, casting light to get a better look. “Before we do anything, you have to let me clean those and you drink another healing potion on top of the healing I’m going to do.”

“You brought extra potions?”

“I know. Alarmingly practical of me, isn’t it? Don’t let anyone else know.”

Once we got our breath back and came down off the adrenalin rush combat always brings, we returned to the centre of the grove. The resentment demon had dissolved, or returned to the Fade; I really don’t know what happens to the dead ones other than they disappear like dried up ectoplasm after a time. Elizabez was still lying where I’d left her, dead to all appearances. Dorian looked at her in the magical spectrum and scowled.

“And they say Tevinter is depraved. No fade demon constructed all these; it had help. One moment.” He knelt next to her, cast a spell I was unfamiliar with, though I could feel it was powerful. For a few long minutes nothing happened, then something rose from the body. It wasn’t like smoke—more like the wavering, nearly invisible heat vapor that rises from a fire. It slowly took on a humanoid shape, flickering in purplish translucence. I didn’t hear it say anything, but Dorian responded, his words too soft for me to make out. Then he turned to me, motioned that I should join him.

“Amatus, take my hand and open yourself up to me like we did when I helped with your pool of ancient elves. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

I did as he asked, the magic that runs through both of us blending and synchronizing effortlessly. I felt his mind, tasted his spirit as he did the same with me, and I let him bring me into the web of his spell. _Here we are,_ he said, the words spoken softly though I also heard them without his having to say them aloud.

He directed my attention to what had appeared to me as a wavering shade. Thanks to his magic, I now saw a woman of around thirty, with dark brown hair, tawny skin and grey-blue eyes. She wouldn’t be considered conventionally beautiful, but striking, perhaps. She looked weary but not unhappy.

“Elizabez?” I said.

She nodded. “Want…to thank you.” Her voice didn’t register through my ears, but rather felt as if it was being relayed through Dorian. Speech appeared to be an effort for her. “Please. Finish the body. Don’t want to come back.”

“We will. I’m just sorry I couldn’t do more for you.”

“…Freed me. That is everything.” I felt her attention shift to Dorian. “You will help Aubrey?”

“I will. I’ll do everything in my power to,” he said.

“Good. He was innocent and didn’t belong to this world.” She wavered a bit after speaking that much. “Finish the body. Please.”

“Right away,” Dorian said. “You’ll be free to go.”

I wondered if she’d go through the Fade on her way to whatever awaited her and started guiltily when she seemed to pick up on it. She wavered again, jaw clenching. “Never returning to the Fade. There is more. Aubrey proved that.”

“You should do whatever you want,” Dorian soothed. “You’ve earned it.”

I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

Her expression became placid. “Not your fault. I am grateful. And tired. Please finish the body.”

“Right away,” Dorian said. “I just wanted to check on you, and thought you and Kai should meet. You may go now.” He banished the spell and Elizabez faded from view. Dorian and I disengaged reluctantly; it was neither the time nor the place to continue indulging in that magical connection. It took both of us a few minutes and several deep breaths to reorient ourselves.

Finally, I said, “Thank you. I…was pretty sure she was trying to get me to kill her, but it all happened so fast.”

He smiled. “I knew you’d be fretting about whether you did the right thing. Besides, it gave me the chance to do some real necromancy. People forget that the bulk of necromancy isn’t combat-oriented at all. It’s forensic in nature. Like being able to chat with the dearly departed. If you’re not in Nevarra, there’s really not much call to raise the bodies just so they can shamble about startling people.”

“You know, you’d think Nevarra would have a thriving perfume and air freshening industry.”

“I think most of them are content to let great-grandfather and the rest of the clan stay in the necropolis.” He stood and I followed suit. We looked at the body, still with my weapon sticking out of the back of the neck.

“Finish the body,” I said. 

After debating what implement would be most effective, we settled on the long, sharp blade at the end of Dorian’s staff. I yanked my axe out and Dorian set the blade in the wound, sawing at it while I held the head still. The grisly task seemed to go on forever before he cut through the skin on the front of the throat. I took the head and set it far away from the body. “Think it’ll burn?” I said.

Dorian cast a clean-up spell on his hands, brushed them off fastidiously. “Hopefully all those protections will fade now that her keeper is dead and she’s departed the body. I suggest we see if we can incinerate it tomorrow. If not, I suppose sending one of the pieces to a burial at sea would be effective. At the moment, we have another body that needs putting back together, Maker knows how.”

I sighed. “This night is just never going to end. We’ll keep waiting for it to, and there will be a steady pile of bodies to either chop up or reintegrate. And the ghost moon will laugh its arse off at us.”

“I wasn’t aware it had one. So. How do you feel about puzzles?”

We took our bag of Aubrey—none the worse for the wear for my having tripped over it—to the centre of the grove. Miraculously, the ghost flowers Dorian guessed were growing over top of Aubrey’s head were still intact; many of the other blooms weren’t so lucky. We got spades out of the supplies we’d brought, dug up the flowers and replanted them a few paces away before starting our search for the head.

For once the proverbial gods smiled on us, despite Dorian’s dire predictions about what this manual labour was going to do to his hands, as we struck a wooden box about an arm’s length deep. We dug it out and found it did contain a head.

“I vote we assume it’s Aubrey’s,” I said.

“It would be nice to think the Chantry here didn’t make a practice of decapitation,” Dorian said, using a kinetic spell to move the earth back into the hole much more quickly. “Why store it in a box, though? Why not just heave it into the hole the way the rest of them were?”

“Maybe they were scared of it,” I theorized. “Given they brutally murdered him. Could be they didn’t want to take the chance of him gnawing his way back up to the surface to hunt them down and tear out their throats while they slept.”

“You do have a colourful view of the world. Perhaps you should have a go at writing something like those adventure novels you’re so fond of.” He set the box on top of the filled hole. 

We dumped our bag of Aubrey out below and I cast extra light. The soul shadows appeared out of nowhere and swarmed excitedly around Dorian until he snapped at them that they were just making it difficult for us to see what we were doing. It took us about twenty minutes to get all the parts in the right order.

“Now what?” I asked.

Dorian stroked his moustache, pinched the tips of it. “I’m open to suggestions, frankly. The soul shadows are convinced I can fix him.” He paced slowly around the body, studying it, pulled the head out of the box and set it at the top of the neck.

“The whole north side of the island is permeated with his energy, and Maker only knows how long he was sleeping before Elizabez. Can you find a way to synchronize with it?”

He got that distant look that meant he was consulting with his death spirits. “Interesting. His energy is resonating with the spirit of loss. I might be able to work with that.”

Feeling pleased I’d been able to help ever so slightly, I hung back, giving him room to work. I won’t go into the level of detail he described to me later, but he was crafting a new, powerful spell on the fly with no help but the cooperation of the loss spirit. The skill that took was akin to not only writing a new song in a matter of minutes, but arranging it for a live performance involving two or three other musicians as well.

“Amatus, could you come here and synch with me again?” 

I did as he asked, giving him a questioning eyebrow as I took his hand. 

“When I cast this, it’s going to take enough energy that I’ll feel better with your support given you don’t need to stop for lyrium.” He gave me a sideways smile. “I also need that outlandishly practical streak of yours. I’m going to be juggling a few different threads as well as keeping track of Loss and Aubrey. I need you to keep me firmly anchored to our objective.”

“Like herding cats, is it?”

“Cats and a particularly rambunctious group of otters, more like. The elements I’m working with don’t like to play with one another.”

He began casting, and while he did I fed him energy and supported him with that sense of direction. It was more effective to have me take care of it because I was outside the spell itself; his fractious elements reacted more obediently than if they’d sensed he was directing that as well. In a sense, I was like the city watch, imposing order by staring sternly at them with the implied threat of a fine or worse if they tried to play silly buggers.

What began as swirling energy and intent fell into the pattern Dorian had designed, filaments of magic lacing between Aubrey’s shattered body, directing them into the form they held so long ago. Informed by the ache of Loss that Aubrey had felt for unimaginable ages, layer on layer of intent and memory swirled between them, imparting energy to the not-quite-dead flesh. It began to glow, faintly at first, and the glow arced across the parts, filling the spaces between them, or perhaps pulling them together. As the body knit itself, the soul shadows swirled around and through it, individuals melding together into a growing whole and adding a purplish tinge to the moonflower glow of the body. 

Body now reintegrated, Dorian cast the next level of the spell, tendrils of connecting magic blending with the reanimating magic of a more common necromantic spell that he’d modified to receive extra elements from a spirit of remembrance, all of them not only connecting the body to the head, but going into the head, searching for the essence that was Aubrey, looking for the key that would bring him back. He layered intent and a sense of longing over the less elegant _wake up_ elements of the reanimation spell, searching. It wasn’t the meat of the brain he was trying to find, but the being that moved and existed in association with it. He found something, circled it, muttered _venhedis._

_Problem?_ I asked.

A wordless sense of agreement. He cast something I couldn’t follow, then spoke aloud. “Kai. I need you to think of the stars, and Aubrey’s story. I need your thousands of questions. Just direct them towards the path I’m casting, don’t worry about why or what’s going on. Can you do that?”

_Of course._

He cast, and I forced myself to stop playing city watch and instead think about the questions I already had about Aubrey. If the tales were true, he had lived among the stars. How? How could someone survive in the spaces between worlds? Would going between them feel like flight, or something unimaginable to us? What was he, really? Or—interesting thought—had he been a star himself before he fell? Was it joyous living in the vastness out there? _Were_ there other worlds, circling other stars, other things living between those worlds? What was that like, and what had caused that fall from unheard of heights. Was it strife, or sacrifice, or just a stupid, life-altering accident? How long did he fall, and how did he land?

_A sense of darkness, of falling for so long it nearly felt as if you’d never done anything else, of being suspended in place while traveling at the speed of solar systems, then finally hitting resistance. Atmosphere. Burning until you hit the deep, dark sea, rippling under a ghost moon. Going under, ever deeper, plunging into the crushing pressure of three dimensions, too exhausted to do anything but experience the cold and heaviness, then struggling to the surface, trying to reach the light of the stars far above…_

As quickly as it started, it stopped, leaving me gobsmacked and floundering. Dorian said, _I’ve found him. You did it—thank you._

I’d touched Aubrey’s mind for a brief moment, and the vastness of what he had been, what he still was even in his reduced state, was more than all those crotchety old elven priests from the Well of Sorrows combined. I was still channeling energy to Dorian but honestly wasn’t up to doing anything else while he finished his spell. I needed to sit down and let my mind recover.

A short time later he said, _Done. And I need to sit as badly as you._ We disengaged from one another (though we continued holding hands) and trudged back to the tree at the end of the grove. Aubrey was intact, glowing softly in the middle of the grove. He had yet to awaken. 

Dorian leaned his head back against the trunk, eyes closed. “That was…exhausting. I shall have to write a paper on it.”

I chuckled. “Think they’ll believe you?”

He smiled. “They’ll have to. I can back up every bit of it and you were there to see and confirm it all.” He rolled his head to the side so he could see me, opened his eyes a crack. “What happened at the end? I could feel a connection, but couldn’t tell what was going on. Too much else to concentrate on.”

I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “For a moment I was in his mind. He showed me his fall. I felt a piece of what he is. I…don’t think I have the words for it. It’s going to take me time to sort through it.”

“I think I’m jealous.”

“Just write a good paper on it. I’ll give you whatever backup you want. You deserve all the accolades in the magical world for pulling that off.”

“I do, don’t I?”


	10. Chapter 10

We sat under that tree drinking from water flasks and recovering from everything we’d done for a good half hour, while Aubrey’s body glowed in the middle of the grove under the wan light of the ghost moon. We didn’t talk much; there’d be time for that later, after that long, long night was over. 

Just as I was beginning to realize the ground really wasn’t that comfortable to sit on, Aubrey stirred and as we stood (a trifle creakily), he sat up (also a trifle creakily).

His appearance had improved exponentially while we were recovering. His body was now smoothly muscled, limbs and hands slightly longer than normal. His face was handsome and sharp-featured, his eyes just as Elizabez had described them: sclera and cat-slit pupils midnight black, with irises of deep blue. His hair was also black, fell long and glossy down to the small of his back. His skin was the colour of the ghost flowers, glowing softly in the moonlight. I say ‘he’ both because of the name Elizabez bestowed on him and his musculature, but he had no genitalia to indicate an actual affiliation. I don’t even know if his kind reproduce in any way we understand. He gave us a slow, catlike blink.

I said, “Welcome back. May we call you Aubrey, or is there another name you prefer?”

He blinked again. I bulled ahead, despite being unsure if he could speak our language. “This is Dorian. He…brought you back. I’m Kai, and I helped him.”

“I…felt. Both of you.” His voice was low and hesitant, gravelly with disuse. He looked at Dorian. “You…told the world to repair me. You made the world listen.”

Dorian looked pleased. “That’s correct.”

Those uncanny eyes turned to me. “And you…our minds touched.”

“Yes.” Belatedly I wondered if that meant he’d seen some scene from my life. If so, I hoped it was at least flattering in some way.

“What do you want of me?” His voice was already getting stronger, melodic. 

“Nothing. Your…essence? Requested Dorian bring you back.”

“I...thank you. But…there is a thing you think I can do for you?”

I flushed. I was still off-balance from touching his mind. “More like hope. I have a sort of magical parasite that’s attached itself to me. It appears to react badly to your energy. I was hoping once you were awake, that would be sufficient to kill or banish it.”

He nodded. “Give me a moment.”

“Of course. May I say you speak very well? We found Elizabez’s journal. It appeared she had just begun to teach you our language when everything went wrong.”

“That was before I touched your mind.”

Apparently I’d given him a crash course in the common trade tongue. Not a bad thing, but I did wonder how that worked. I certainly didn’t have any new exotic language of his added to my repertoire. Dorian was asking Aubrey if he wanted us to find him something to wear. He said it wasn’t necessary—I supposed as long as he wasn’t cold, the lack of dangly bits negated much of the need. I chanced a look at my left hand, was pleased to see the Anchor still tightly drawn in on itself. It wasn’t even glowing a little. I tried to clamp down on the surge of hope that gave me, but it wasn’t easy.

Aubrey stood with careful deliberation. Even with the awkwardness brought on by newly-knitted muscle, he moved with an intrinsic grace. I couldn’t imagine how those long-ago Chantry denizens could see something to hate and fear in him, but that was the nature of resentment. He made a circuit of the grove, stopping for several moments when he reached Elizabez’s head before continuing with no sign he’d recognized it. He returned to the centre, gazed up at the ghost moon, standing so still he could have been statuary. The glow emanating from him grew stronger, as if he was absorbing the moonlight. Perhaps he was.

Dorian and I glanced at one another; he gave me a small shrug. I tried to picture bringing Aubrey back to Skyhold with us but couldn’t see it working. Maker, _I_ didn’t really want to be there anymore.

Aubrey heaved a deep sigh, returned his attention to his landbound surroundings. “It is good to see the stars again; they haven’t moved since the last time.” He did something with his hands and a swirl of energy spun around him. When it departed he was dressed in a simple sleeveless robe that—I swear I’m not being poetic—looked as if it was made of night.

Dorian moved closer, said quietly, “No wonder he wasn’t worried about clothing. Considering his palette, are you going to ask how he does that?”

I grinned. “It would be a handy trick to know.”

“I realize it’s probably difficult to say this early, but do you know what you’re going to do now? Is there something we can help you with?” Dorian asked Aubrey.

“Perhaps first I should see to Kai’s request. I believe I have the strength now.”

“I’d appreciate that.” I felt suddenly nervous, hope and fear of disappointment warring in me. Dorian gave my right hand an encouraging squeeze and released it. I approached Aubrey.

“Where is the parasite?” he asked.

“My left hand. I think it’s gone up my arm as well.” I shrugged out of my coat, passed it to Dorian, proffered my hand to Aubrey.

He gazed at it for several moments, his expression revealing nothing, then gently ran his hands from my palm to my elbow and back again. His skin was cool to the touch. He kept one hand over my palm, the other lightly holding my forearm, and trained his eyes once more to the heavens. I felt his energy strengthen, directed by his hands.

My hand and arm began to tingle, a feeling somewhere between an electric charge and the pins and needles you get when it’s gone numb. The glow of energy in his hands strengthened, suffused my hand as well, moved slowly up my arm. In addition to the tingling was a sensation like I was dipping my forearm in cool water. It made me aware of the chill in the air; I would have cast a small heat spell if I’d been sure it wouldn’t interfere. I tried to ignore it and concentrate on the Anchor. The mark across my palm looked almost like an old injury that someone had daubed around the edges with green tincture. As I watched, the green faded more, driving all thoughts of cold from my mind.

I glanced up at Aubrey—his pupils had expanded until they were nearly round, leaving a narrow ring of deepest blue to differentiate between pupil and sclera. Only the slightest frown gave any indication of the effort he was expending. I wanted to help but was afraid my Thedas-based energy would just sabotage his efforts.

The green faded a bit more, darkening as it did. I was dimly aware that Dorian had drawn closer to watch.

A massive bolt of pain ripped from my hand straight up my left arm, shocking in its strength and suddenness. I screamed, and a blast of bright, sickly green energy erupted from the slash that was the Anchor, striking at Aubrey with a vicious sparking and snapping. It threw him off his feet and halfway across the grove. Dorian shouted somewhere nearby as I was driven to my knees, left hand cramping helplessly into a fist as I cradled my arm against my chest. It was the second worst pain I’d ever felt and all I could do was ride it out and hope there’d be no more.

Then Dorian was kneeling beside me, arm around my shoulders, asking me if I was all right, letting me know he was there for me. I leaned into him, trying to catch my breath as the pain subsided. I said, “Shit.”

“Can you stand?” he asked.

I nodded, let him help me up. I looked at my left hand. It still wasn’t glowing, but the green around the anchor was smugly bright. “Fucking whelp of a poxy whore,” I added. It still didn’t feel strong enough to express my anger and disappointment.

“The Anchor didn’t take kindly to your eviction attempt,” Dorian understated.

I snorted.

Aubrey glided up to us, apparently none the worse for his impromptu flight. “I am sorry. The parasite has embedded itself too firmly.” He made a wry face. “And it has defences.”

“Thank you for trying,” I said. I wanted to punch something, but there was nothing deserving of my wrath. I also wanted to burst into tears and get very, very drunk. And then punch something. “If you both don’t mind, I just…need a few minutes.”

“Take as long as you need, amatus,” Dorian said.

I nodded and returned to the thick tree that had become our unofficial base. I dug through my rucksack for more water, came across the soft, fluffy bundle that was Aubrey’s stuffed fennec. I stroked it, would honestly have pulled it out and cuddled it like a small child if it wouldn’t have looked undignified. Not that Dorian or Aubrey were likely to care if I did, but…I compromised by pulling it out of the bag (to reach the water flask, of course) and merely holding it on my lap. I told myself it was my own fault for getting my hopes up, but that didn’t make me feel any less awful. I had gotten pretty good at ignoring the Anchor over the years, at pretending it was just a minor inconvenience, but I was never completely unaware of it. I hated the alien thing. Right then, I fancied I could not only feel it burrowed into my hand, smug and victorious, but feel the poison tendrils of it worming its way further into me, taking my lower arm in stealthy increments. And then what? How far could it go and what would it do to me? Stupid parasites inevitably kill their hosts—a distinct possibility—but what do smart ones do? What would its tainted magic do if and when it reached more vital areas?

I stroked the fennec’s head. It was angled so it looked up at me with its cheerful little smile, as if reminding me there were good things in the world, too. Not the least of which was the man in the centre of the glade calmly having a cheerful conversation with an ancient being from beyond the world while he let me work through my anger and disappointment. Dorian brought out the best in me, and I think I did the same for him. It was, trite as it may sound, true love. There was that to consider. Venhedis, if it weren’t for the stupid, bloody, thrice-cursed Anchor I would likely never have met him. Even Aubrey’s presence was a potent reminder that the Fade wasn’t everywhere, and there was more to the world than one could imagine. There was magic.

I finished the water flask, stood and trudged back over to them. Dorian smiled and handed me my coat. I draped it over my arm, obscuring the fact that I was still holding the fennec. Aubrey gave me a friendly nod.

“You mean you can’t return to the stars?” Dorian asked, obviously picking up their conversation.

“I cannot. This world is heavy, and traps me in a form it understands. I tried when first I fell.”

“Do you mind my asking how that happened?” I said.

He shrugged. “It was long ago. The how and why of it are ancient and irrelevant.”

In other words, a very polite _yes, I do mind._ “What will you do now?”

“Dorian has been telling me of the happenings outside this island. Your world is troubled, and inimical to me. As I saw when last I was awakened, kindnesses are outweighed by venality I am unequipped to combat. I would sleep again.” 

“But there is so much we could learn from one another,” Dorian said.

“Perhaps one day. I enjoyed meeting the both of you, but I prefer the others who live here not know of me. If you like, spare me a kind thought now and then. Perhaps I will sense it.”

“And perhaps in sleep you can once again travel among the stars,” I said.

“You understand.”

“Will you be safe here?” Dorian asked. “We Thedosians have a habit of digging up perfectly nice places like this in order to improve them with unattractive building projects, particularly over the stretches of time you’re intending to sleep.”

“I will go deep, and my…essence? can influence the atmosphere in the vicinity to suggest this place should be left alone.”

“We could help with that. Set up some repulsion spells to enhance that feeling that they should leave this place as it is,” I said.

“We should be able to mesh them with your energy so they won’t fade over time,” Dorian added.

“I would appreciate that.” Aubrey gazed up at the ghost moon, breathed deeply, gave us a faint smile. “If there is nothing else?”

I hesitated, then proffered the fennec to him. “This is yours. We found it in your quarters.”

He took it, a broad and genuine smile making him seem somehow more human, and held it the way I’d been too self-conscious to. “It survived! I thought they’d destroyed it, too. It was a soft, pleasant thing amid too much ugliness.” He buried his face in its fur for a moment, then held it out to me. “I wish you to have it. I think you need it more than I now. Perhaps both of you will remember me kindly when you hold it.”

So I thanked him and took the fennec back. I’ll admit I was pleased—in a short time I’d grown quite fond of the little stuffed animal. If that was undignified, well…an unimaginably ancient being from beyond the world didn’t think it was, so why should I?

The ghost moon was low in the sky when Aubrey lay down on the cool grass, wrapped in his cloak of night. He assured us there was no need to dig—the same energy that made his cloak would allow him to go to a sleeping place deep under the earth. We said our goodbyes, and he closed his eyes. The energy that was in and of Aubrey, that was imbued in the northern side of the island after so many years, gathered around him. It was like a spell casting but…not. A different form of magic was at work, and I was as fascinated as Dorian.

I shifted to the magical spectrum, where swirls of translucent colour I wasn’t sure existed in the mundane world moved around and through Aubrey, began extending to the ground below him, not so much displacing the earth as making it irrelevant. He began to descend when a human-sized mass of purple energy hurtled into the swirling colours and past them into Aubrey. He sat bolt upright, the ground solidifying under him. He didn’t speak aloud, but there was _something_ happening within him. A faint purple outline appeared around him, and his expression seemed vexed. 

I whispered, “Dorian? What the fuck?” The smile on his face suggested he knew what the fuck.

“Just a moment and I’ll tell you. I want to make sure what I’m seeing is correct.”

I sighed, thinking I should’ve learned necromancy instead of being lured in by the idea of being able to conjure a sword on a whim.

Aubrey demanded, “Are you sure?” Apparently they were. Now bemused, he said, “Then, welcome,” and lay back down. The colours began swirling again, and in minutes he’d sunk from sight.

I turned to Dorian. “Well?”

He grinned. “That purple streak you saw was Elizabez. I suspect she’d decided to haunt the grove rather than risk entering the Fade, but she found something better. She asked to join him. He agreed. I don’t know what his sleep is like, whether he dreams, but she’ll be there with him.”

I pulled on my coat against the chill wind. “She could do that? I guess she could, since she did. Well. That’s nice for both of them. Let’s go home and have a drink before we fall over from exhaustion, shall we?”

“Sounds like a splendid idea. We’ll have to dispose of her body still, though I think there’s very little danger of her being forced back into it now.”

“It’ll keep.” 

We fetched our things from the big tree at the end of the grove but before we left, Dorian put his hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eyes. “Amatus, are you all right?”

I paused to think about that. “Not completely. I really hoped…”

He pulled me into an embrace and I hugged him back, appreciating not just the feel of him, but the understanding and care he was giving me. “I’m sorry,” he murmured in my ear. “I’d hoped it might work too.”

We embraced a while longer, until a particularly vicious gust of wind reminded us there was a perfectly warm and comfortable house waiting for us to return. We trudged home as false dawn hid the last of the ghost moon from view. Soon the big moon would return in all its glory, making it seem as if its companion didn’t even exist.


	11. Chapter 11

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to say I’m looking forward to getting back to Skyhold? Because I’m not.” I settled into my seat on the coach as Dorian climbed in.

“But amatus, there are Orlesians to coddle and documents to sign, and walks in the cold, crisp air! What’s not to love?” He sat on the padded bench seat across from me, frowned, sat next to me instead, putting his feet up on the vacated seat. I draped my arm across his shoulders.

“When you put it that way, let’s go back to the house and start arranging for indoor plumbing.”

“Island life growing on you?”

“It puts a serious damper on the fucking Anchor. I’m ready to stay just to spite it.”

“What about the Orlesians?”

“I’ll spite them too.”

“Fortunately you’re adorable when you’re spiteful.”

_=#=_

The week since the night of the ghost moon had flown by. That first night we’d gotten home at dawn, had a drink each and fallen into bed where we slept until early evening. By the time we’d both washed off all the assorted ick of the night before, it was nearly dark and by the time we reached the pub it was full night. The ghost moon was still visible, but the big moon was a growing sliver in the sky, ready to reassert its dominance.

Careful questioning before and after dinner confirmed no one was aware anything had happened out at the grove of ghost flowers. The Northreachers’ policy of staying in during the ghost moon had worked in our favour. Still feeling the aftereffects of everything that had happened, we bought beer and wine to go and returned home after dinner, spent the night in. 

I was still feeling off-balance from the glimpse of Aubrey’s true self and unimaginable fall, and was teetering on the edge of a deep depression after the crushing disappointment of not being able to remove the Anchor. That it actively fought that removal scared me; the depth to which it was embedded in me was utterly terrifying. If Dorian hadn’t been there I don’t know that I could have maintained my equilibrium. So along with playing card games and drinking too much, we talked. He didn’t once try to tell me I was wrong to feel the way I did, or that it would all work itself out or any of the other platitudes people always trot out. He just understood, offered other ways to look the situation and, most importantly, made me laugh. Late that night after we’d made love, he took my hand and pointed out that the energy imbued in the very bones of Northreach, thanks to Aubrey, was still keeping the Anchor damped down and sulking, and that cheered me up even more.

The next afternoon we went back to the grove to dispose of Elizabez’s remains and got a surprise. While the head was sitting where we’d left it, the body was nowhere to be seen.

“It’s like the earth just swallowed it up,” Dorian said with a grin and a wink.

The ghost flowers that had been torn and trampled in the fighting were back, though furled in sleep in the late afternoon sun, the flowers we’d transplanted looked like they’d been growing there forever, and there was a new, large patch of them where Aubrey rested deep below. 

As promised, we set up a powerful but subtle repulsion spell; Dorian threw in a little frisson of terror so your average interloper would get a feeling of impending doom if they even thought about changing anything in the grove. We tied the entire spell into the energy of the place, so as long as Aubrey was there and/or his energy remained, it would feed the spell and keep it as strong as the day we cast it. Magically, it was an amazing accomplishment, given we hadn’t known other forms of magical energy that had no connection to the Fade even existed just days before.

We stuck the head in a burlap bag and cast compression until it imploded, then carried the whole thing to a desolate, rocky section of beach and incinerated it, confirming the protections it had against magic were gone. The entire walk back Dorian fretted about how to write a treatise on the new magic and magical techniques he’d learned without giving too much away about the location and circumstances in which they’d been discovered.

I named my fennec Aubrey and decided I didn’t give a rat’s ass if anyone thought it was undignified for a grown man to keep a cute stuffed animal out where it could be seen. I did rather regret I’d forgotten to ask the real Aubrey how he did that trick with the cloak made of night, though.

We never did return to the abandoned chantry, so if anything still walked there, it walked alone.

I also never found out what was in the attic of our house, if there was anything. We never found a key, and decided perhaps it was better that it remain a mystery.

Our remaining days in Northreach were what we’d imagined they’d all be. We relaxed at the beach, took occasional walks in the woods, ate at the pub and spent our nights at home doing whatever struck our fancy (which in Dorian’s case also involved making preliminary notes for the scholarly papers he was eager to write). We returned to the general store, where I spent a fascinating hour combing through their more unusual wares while Dorian and the shopkeeper carried on an alarmingly in-depth conversation about wine that would have bored me senseless. I didn’t find anything as good as the little metal dragon, but had fun looking through everything.

Before we left, Alson and a few of the other Northreachers we’d gotten to know even threw us a little farewell party. Considering none of them had ever met a mage before we arrived and admitted they’d only heard all those shite stories about us that the Chantry delighted in spreading, we felt quite pleased with our public relations success. In what the universe no doubt considered a moment of sublime wit, they even presented us with a fruit basket.

 _=#=_  


Which brought us to the coach, our luggage increased by the aforementioned fruit basket, one painting, a slim journal that would go into our collection, a bag of polished rocks, a ring with a nasty barbed hook attached to it, a cunning little metal dragon figurine that now blew a small ball of fire when its jaws opened, some star charts we’d never got round to studying, and one stuffed fennec.

“I’ll actually miss this place,” I admitted.

“It certainly wasn’t dull. We could always come back someday. Give the Anchor fits just for the fun of it. I won’t even complain about the boat ride.”

“If Northreach only knew what a ringing endorsement they’ve just been given.”

“They’d probably tell us to keep quiet and let the holidayers go to the Ferelden side.”

I chuckled, but it made me think. “Are we going to tell anyone what happened here?”

Dorian stroked the patch of hair under his lower lip. “Do _you_ want to?”

I don’t have any hair, so I ran my hand through his instead. “Nah. We’d have to explain too much. Let’s keep this private.”

“Maybe you can write a story about it one day. ‘ _What I Did On My Autumn Holiday_.”

I laughed. “Maybe.”

**Author's Note:**

> Part of this story was inspired by the song [ Ballade von der Erweckung](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FtqlZFwyAtQ) by [ASP](http://www.aspswelten.de/).  
> English translation: lyricstranslate.com/en/ballade-von-der-erweckung-ballad-awakening.html


End file.
